01 Story of The Phantom by Lee Falk

TPH Presents
Story of the Phantom

2 http://thephantomhead.blogspot.com

The Ghost Who Walks by Lee Falk
(Book 01)

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

Over four-hundred years ago, a large British merchantman was attacked by Singg pirates off the
remote shores of Bangalla. The captain of the trading vessel was a famous seafarer who, in his youth,
had served as cabin boy to Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to discover the New World.
With the captain, was his son Kit, a strong young man who idolized his father and hoped to follow in
his footsteps as a seafarer. But the pirate attack was disastrous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of
the merchantman was killed and the ship sank in flames. The sole survivor was young Kit, who, as
he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half dead, and
friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health.

Walking on the beach one day, he found a dead pirate dressed in his father's clothes, and realized this
was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the
body clean. Then, on the skull of his father's murderer, he swore an oath by firelight as the friendly
pygmies watched. "I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice,
and my sons and their sons shall follow me."

This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descendants would live by. In time, the pygmies led
him to their home in the Deep Woods, in the center of the jungle, where he found a large cave with
many rocky chambers~ The mouth of the cave, a natural formation shaped by the water and wind of
centuries, was curiously like a skull. This became his home, the Skull Cave. He soon adopted a mask
and a strange costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless
battle against worldwide piracy. For he and his sons who followed became known as the nemeses of
pirates everywhere, a mysterious man whose face no one ever saw, whose name no one knew, who
worked alone.

As the years passed, he fought injustice wherever he found it. The first Phantom and the Sons who
followed found their wives in many places. One married a reigning queen, one a princess, and one a
beautiful red-haired barmaid. But queen or commoner, all followed their men back to the Deep
Woods, to live the strange but happy life of the wife of the Phantom. And of all the world, only she-
wife of the Phantom-and their children, could see his face.

Generation after generation was born, grew to manhood, and assumed the tasks of the father before
him. Each wore the mask and costume. Folk of the jungle and the city and sea began to whisper that
there was a man who could not die, a Phantom, a Ghost Who Walks. For they thought the Phantom
was always the same man. A boy who saw the Phantom would see him again fifty years later; and he
seemed the same. And he would tell his son and his grandson; and his son and grandson would see
the Phantom fifty years after that, and he would seem the same. So the legend grew. The Man Who
Cannot Die. The Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.

The Phantom did not discourage this belief in his immortality. Always working alone against
tremendous- sometimes almost impossible-odds, he found that the awe and fear the legend inspired
were a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends the pygmies knew the truth. To
compensate for their tiny stature, the pygmies mixed deadly poisons for use on their weapons, in
hunting or defending themselves, though it was rare that they were forced to defend themselves.
http://thephantomhead.blogspot.com 3

Their deadly poisons were known throughout the jungle, and they and their home, the Deep Woods,
were dreaded and avoided. Also-another reason to stay away from the Deep Woods-it soon became
known that this was a home of the Phantom, and none wished to trespass.

Through the ages, the Phantoms created several more homes or hideouts in various parts of the world.
Near the Deep Woods was the Isle of Eden, where the Phantom taught all animals to live in peace, In
the southwest desert of the New World, the Phantom created an aerie on a high sheer mesa that was
thought by the Indians to be haunted by evil spirits and became known as "Walker's Table," for the
Ghost Who Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling cellars of an ancient castle ruin, the Phantom
had another hideout from which to strike against evildoers.

But the Skull Cave in the quiet of the Deep Woods remained the true home of the Phantom. Here, in
a rocky chamber, he kept his chronicles: written records of all his adventures. Phantom after
Phantom faithfully wrote his experiences in the large folio volumes. Another chamber contained the
costumes of all the generations of Phantoms. Yet others contained the vast treasures of the Phantom,
acquired over centuries, used only in the endless battle against evil.

Thus twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought, and died-usually violently-as they followed their
oath. Jungle folk, sea folk, and city folk believed him always to be the same man, the Man Who
Cannot Die. Only the pygmies knew that, always, a day would come when their great friend would
lie dying. Then, alone, a strong young son would carry his father to the burial crypt of his ancestors
where all Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would emerge from the
cave, wearing the mask, the costume, and the skull ring of the Phantom: his carefree happy days as
the Phantom's son were over. And the pygmies would chant their age-old chant, "The Phantom is
dead. Long live the Phantom."

And thus we come to an exciting day in the life of the twentieth generation of Phantoms; the birth of
a boy baby. It is this boy baby who will grow up to become the twenty-first Phantom, the Phantom of
our day, whose adventures we know and follow. And the tale we are about to tell is his story as he
grows from that baby boy into the mysterious Man Who Cannot Die, the Ghost Who Walks-the
Phantom.

CHAPTER 1
A DOCTOR REMEMBERS

Living alone in a small bungalow at the edge of the jungle, young Dr. Axel was awakened by a soft
touch on his shoulder. What he saw in the moonlight coming through the bedroom windows terrified
him. But let him tell it in his words:

"Standing around my bed were four small muscular men armed with short lances, wearing only
loincloths. Though I'd never seen one of them before, I instantly knew who they were, the pygmy
Bandar whose weapons were tipped with poison that caused instant death."

Dr. Axel had come to the jungle only two years before from his native northland, giving up the
comforts and pleasures of his home to bring modern medicine to the jungle- folk. His dream was to
build a small hospital in the jungle, a dream that appeared impossible now-or in the future-for lack of
funds. But as he looked in frozen fear at the grim little men staring silently at him, he wondered if he
had any future at all beyond this moment. Why were they here? Had he broken some taboo? City
people never saw the pygmies. Normal-sized jungle folk rarely did. The pygmy poison people, as
they were called, were feared and avoided. It was rumored they lived somewhere in the Center of the
jungle, a place called the Deep Woods.


But let Dr. Axel continue his tale. He was to retell it, for the next twenty-five years, as the most
fantastic experience of his life. "There were moments of silence that seemed years. How had they
gotten into my bedroom so quietly? I later learned they moved like cats. There was only their soft
breathing, their sharp eyes staring at me. I knew none of the jungle dialects, but I tried simple
English, a fairly common language in this area. 'What do you want?' I said, or some such brilliant
remark. I knew from their unchanged expression that they understood not a word. One of them spoke:
'Come' he said, pointing to a window. In spite of my fear, I felt relieved. Maybe we could talk to
each other. 'What do you want? Is someone sick? Is that why you're here?' 'Come,' said the
spokesman again. 'Come where? Why? What do you want?' I repeated foolishly, sensing they
understood nothing. They all took a step closer to me. The spokesman moved his lance with its
deadly tip to within an inch of my throat. 'Come,' he said. I needed no further urging. I got up and
dressed quickly while they watched with no change of expression on their grim faces. I started out
the door. 'Come' said the pygmy, pointing to the window. He also pointed at my medical satchel.
Somehow, they knew what it was. I went out the window into the moonlight.

"Once outside," continues Dr. Axel, "a half dozen more pygmies came out of the bushes and joined
us. I was surrounded by the little men, none of whose heads were higher than my chest. I took a last
look at my little white bungalow. Would I ever see it again? They avoided the few houses near mine,
and soon we were in the jungle. They broke into a fast jog which they were to continue for many
hours, tireless, and silent."

Dr. Axel's memory of that trip is fragmentary. He says that he jogged along as well as he could. Then,
amazingly, a horse-saddled and bridled-was led out of the dark bushes by a waiting pygmy. He
mounted it, but the pygmies kept hold of the reins and led him as they ran.

"I've often been asked if, once on horseback, I attempted to break away from my captors who were
on foot. The thought never entered my mind. I knew that one scratch of a deadly lance or arrow and
my horse would drop dead under me. I also knew vaguely that the jungle through which we now
moved was filled with great cats, lions, leopards, and panthers. And also hostile tribes, a few of
which were reputed to be headhunters or cannibals. But we saw none of this. Evidently wild animals
and wild men alike feared the swift and deadly pygmy poison people."

Dawn came, then a day, and another night, at the same relentless pace. Dr. Axel recalls that he was
permitted to rest for a few hours, and was given nuts and berries from the jungle. Then on at the
steady trot. The endurance of the little men amazed him. But where were they taking him? Why?
Somehow they found paths through what seemed to be solid impenetrable jungle. Dr. Axel had lost
all sense of direction and time, but near the second dawn he heard the sound of a distant waterfall.
For the first time, the pygmies seemed excited. Their faces brightened. A few actually smiled as they
spoke to each other. As they neared the sound of the waterfall, they stopped. Dr. Axel was
blindfolded securely with heavy leaves and vines. Then on. Now the waterfall was a roar, and
suddenly he was plunged into it, still on horseback. The cold water drenched him, but it was not
unpleasant. He could not know that he had passed through the hidden and secret entrance to the
home of the pygmy Bandar-the Deep Woods. But there was more, much more! Let Dr. Axel tell it.
"The roaring waterfall had almost knocked me off my horse. I came out of it, drenched but refreshed,
rid of two days of jungle dust. A touch on my leg told me to dismount. I did so, and little hands
removed my blindfold. I must tell you that I stared! What I saw was fantastic.

"There was a large cave opening into a high cliff. The cave mouth looked like a giant human skull.
On one side, or~ a dais, was a stone throne, with stone skulls carved into it. A group of pygmies
watched me. There might have been fifty or a hundred. One of them ran into the cave. After a
moment, a large man came out of the cave. He was the most fantastic of all. He was masked, and
wore a skintight costume with a death's head on a broad gun belt that bore two pistols. The masked
man came bounding toward me. He was huge, with massive muscles, a superb physical specimen.

He actually grinned at me as he said, 'Dr. Axel, I believe. Sorry about this, but we needed you. Please
follow me.' That was all he said. He knew me but did not mention his own name.

"I followed him into the great cave. There appeared to be many chambers. I saw what looked like a
library with great volumes on shelves; another chamber seemed to be a burial crypt, and through a
partially opened door I saw what may have been a chamber filled with shining gold and jewels. But I
had not time to examine all that, for my masked host hurried me into another chamber where a
beautiful woman with long blonde hair lay on a wide bed made of heaped furs. She wore a long
velvet robe of royal purple, and brilliant jewels; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds hung at her throat,
encircled her arms, and were woven in the blonde hair. Moreover, she was within an hour or two of
childbirth.

'My wife,' said the masked man. 'Will she be all right? Do you need anything?' For all his size and
apparent power, he sounded nervous. After a quick examination I assured him that her condition
appeared normal and that an uncomplicated birth could be expected.

'So this is why I was shanghaied and raced through the jungle,' I told him, almost angrily. I say
'almost.' This was not a man at whom you shouted. The sense of regal power that came from him was
awesome. I felt as if I were in the presence of a king or emperor. He smiled. I could not see his eyes
because of the manner in which the mask was made. His deep voice was kindly but urgent. 'You see,
this is our first child. I must have a boy, Dr. Axel.' His wife smiled at that. 'Can you promise a boy,
Dr. Axel?' she asked softly. 'Forgive us, Doctor,' she continued, 'but I am a weak city-bred girl. I am
not like these strong jungle women who can manage their own childbearing in the field or under a
bush. I asked for a doctor. I was afraid. You see-he, or she-is my first.' 'He,' boomed the deep voice.
"The sweetness of this lovely woman so completely won me that I forgave them everything. My
head was buzzing with a dozen questions. Who were these people? Why was he masked? Why did
they live in this strange place-why this 'city-bred girl?' But there was no time for answers just now.
Her labor pains were coming rapidly. Pygmy women rushed in and out of the cave aiding me, and
bringing in wooden bowls of hot water, and other necessities. The masked man paced through the
rocky chambers like many a father-to-be before him. And, outside the cave, the little people sat in
quiet groups, waiting.

"Then the time came. 'It's a boy,' I told her. She smiled faintly. 'Let me tell him,' she said. The
masked man bound in and bent over her. 'Mother and child are doing fine,' I assured him. 'We have
our boy,' she whispered. 'Kit,' the masked man held up the tiny infant in his huge hands. 'Kit!' he
roared, and, carrying the child in its swaddling wrap, went to the entrance of the cave and held up the
tiny bundle so that all could see. 'A boy,' he shouted. The pygmies leaped up. No longer mysterious
and grim, they danced and laughed and jumped and sang. I now saw that the dreaded pygmy Bandar
were a delightful and lovable people; sweet, shy, and friendly as they crowded around the huge
figure and the infant. Kit! I later learned that all firstborn males of this unusual family were named
Kit.

"It was time for me to go. I had all the questions, but I was to receive few answers that day. 'The
Bandar will escort you to your home,' he told me. 'I prefer that you tell no one about this experience,
but if you do, no one will believe you,' he added, laughing. 'Before you go, doctor, one moment ...'
We were in the cave, standing near a partially opened door. He went in. I had only a brief glance, but
it was the room that seemed to be filled with chests brimming with shining gold and glittering jewels.
Tons of them! He came out carrying a small sack and closed the door behind him. 'This is for your
trouble, Doctor. I have no money here, but this will serve.' I opened the sack and poured part of the
contents into my open hand. 'Are these glass?' I asked, hardly believing what I saw. 'No, real,' he said,
smiling at my amazement. 'Now you can have that hospital, Dr. Axel.'


"The party of pygmies who had brought me into the jungle were waiting. 'We must blindfold you
once again,' said the masked man almost apologetically. 'It is for your safety as well as ours.
Someday, people might want to know this location, people with criminal intentions. If you don't
know how you got here, no one can use you, or force you.' I didn't understand at the time, but I did
later on.

Then, as we shook hands, he did something that was odd. I noticed that he wore a heavy ring on
either hand. Holding my right hand in his, he made a massive fist of his left hand and pressed the
ring against my wrist. It left a mark on my skin that looked like two crossed sabers. Or crossed P's. I
could never decide. I looked up at him questioningly. I say 'up.' I am a tall man, but he was almost a
head taller. 'My good mark,' he said, smiling. 'All who see it will know that you are my friend, under
my protection, as will be your Sons and their sons. It may be useful to you someday.' I was surprised
and puzzled as I mumbled my thanks. 'Protection?' I thought to myself. 'From whom? And how?' But
I didn't ask him. I rubbed the mark. The impression remained unchanged. 'I'm afraid it won't come
off. . . ever,' he said. 'Think of it as a good luck charm.'

"I wanted to ask more, much more, but at that moment the pygmies approached me with a blindfold.
I had one more quick look around. A cluster of pygmies peering into the weird skull cave-the skull
throne-and the masked man who faced me. Then I was blindfolded and helped upon my horse.
'Before I go, one question only. Who are you?' I asked. The deep voice replied, 'Men know me by
many names. Some call me the Phantom. Farewell, we will meet again, Dr. Axel.'

"Phantom! I was confused as they led me toward the roaring waterfall. In my brief two years in
Bangalla, I had heard the name whispered several times by servants, and overheard jungle-folk
patients mention the same name. I had questioned them. They were secretive and evasive, and
offered only meager information. From them I got the impression of an ancient jungle myth, a
legendary being 'with the strength of ten tigers and the wisdom of sages,' as one old man put it; a
protective image they all admired and loved, who had lived for centuries and could not die. What
else had they called him? The Ghost Who Walks.

'I' "I wanted to tear off my blindfold, to turn back and see this masked man once again, to ask him the
questions that almost exploded in me. That hand I'd shaken was not a ghostly hand. It was the hand
of a powerful young man in the prime of his manhood. But there was something else- something in
the regal bearing, the deep voice-a strangeness, a mystery. But as I turned my head back to call to
him, I was plunged once again into the roaring waterfall. Then, as I rode out on the other side,
drenched, and blindfolded, I thought of the fortune of gems that I carried and I asked myself, 'How
did he know I wanted a hospital?'"

That is Dr. Axel's story. Time would pass. He would get his hospital-he would see that Phantom
more than once-and would often wonder how he knew what he did. And on the gateposts of his
jungle hospital, for all the world to see, would be the good mark of the Phantom, meaning that it was
protected against all evildoers. What Dr. Axel did not realize at the time-if he ever did-was that he
had assisted at the birth of the twenty-first Phantom, called Kit-like all first-born males of the
Phantom line-Kit "Walker," for the Ghost Who Walks.

CHAPTER 2
JUNGLE BOYHOOD

Little Kit's world was deep jungle, largely unexplored, and unknown to outsiders. The closest town
was five hundred miles of trackless jungle away. It was a thousand miles from the ocean on one side,
at the capital of Bangalla called Mawitaan, to the Misty Mountains on the other side, the land of the
feudal mountain princes. In between, deep jungle filled with all the grass-eaters: hippo, elephant,

rhino, antelope, and all the great predatory cats that fed upon them. Also people, friendly tribes, like
the great Wambesi and Liongo; hostile, suspicious people like the smaller Oogaan; in some remote
areas, avoided by the others, cannibals; and the nomadic Tirangi, said to be headhunters, ever on the
move with their goats and sheep.

In the very center of this vast area, known as the Deep Woods, lived the pygmy Bandar, the little
poison people. Entrances to their land were hidden and secret. But no one in the jungle, including
headhunters and cannibals, attempted to find them. On the contrary, all avoided the Deep Woods, a
dreaded and mysterious place. For there was a greater mystery in the Deep Woods. A few lucky
ones-or unlucky ones depending on circumstances-have seen with their own eyes the Skull Cave and
the Skull Throne. Some had even seen the Phantom. Lucky ones who returned home talked about it
for the rest of their days. And their tale was retold by their Sons and grandsons.

But to baby Kit, the Deep Woods were neither dreaded, mysterious, nor awesome. He learned to
crawl in the Skull Cave. He took his first steps there, watched by the anxious eyes of his beautiful
mother and father. To the toddler, the Cave was gigantic. Its rocky walls soared above him like a vast
cathedral. And as he learned the use of his legs and raced around like a frisky puppy, he found
endlessly fascinating places to explore. There were many rocky chambers. One was filled with
objects that flashed like fire. Another was gloomy, shadowy, and cold. Another had long rows of
things he learned were books. Yet another had recesses hung with garments such as his father wore.
And another was filled with marvelous objects he longed to touch, and one day did. He climbed up
on a case and touched a long shining metal thing that hung on the wall. It was sharp, and pricked his
finger.

A shining object caught his eye. He knew what that was-like his drinking cup-but larger, and heavier,
as he found when it fell from his hands. His father came into the chamber at that moment, and
quickly picked up the cup, examining it carefully. For the first time in his young life, Kit heard the
sharp voice of his father admonishing him. Pretty mother came in and took the weeping child in her
arms. He rarely heard harsh words between his parents; this was an unusual occasion. "The diamond
cup of Alexander," his father said in an angry voice. "He might have broken it. He must not come in
here." "He's only a child. He didn't know," said mother. Father forgave him, but several years passed
before he was taken into that chamber again.

The toddler learned to talk, as toddlers do. Kit's learning was different from most children's. It didn't
seem unusual to him that every object had many names, and that there were numerous ways to say
all the things he began to say. His mother and father were fluent in a dozen languages and used them
interchangeably, almost without thinking. And so Kit grew up learning to speak many tongues. The
pygmies were his constant companions-as soon as he was old enough to be outside the Cave-and he
learned their language and several other jungle tongues they knew.

The world outside the Cave held endless fascination. There were the pygmy children, of course. He
ate with them, played with them, ran with them, and fought with them. When he had barely mastered
the art of walking, they taught him the use of bow and arrow, how to throw a lance, and how to stalk
wild animals. One pygmy in particular became his constant companion. He was Guran, son of the
chief. Guran was ten years older than Kit and had been selected by his father to teach Kit the pygmy
skills and to act as a bodyguard for the child. This kept Guran busy, as anyone knows who has tried
to keep up with an active little boy. There were the usual things that fascinate boys: sharp-pointed
objects, thorn bushes, boiling liquids, animal traps, campfires, wells, pools, streams, swamps, cliffs,
and high trees. In addition, the jungle offered army ants, tarantulas, poisonous snakes, quicksand, and
other special attractions. Kit managed to investigate all of them, with the panting and exhausted
Guran always a step behind him, pulling him up, pulling him down, pulling him away from wherever
or whatever it was.


Then there were the animals. Even before he could walk, Kit was always surrounded with young
animals. Lion and leopard cubs, fawns, and young monkeys. As he toddled outside the Cave, the
young animals gamboled with him, Fuzzy the lion cub, Stripes the tiger, and Spots the leopard. They
rolled and ran and tumbled together. The furry cubs slept with him. At this tender age, Kit began to
learn the care and training and handling of animals under the expert tutelage of his father. When the
fangs and claws grew too large for the child to play with, the animals were sent off to a secret place
that he would learn about later on.

With Guran, he learned how to build snares to trap little furry animals. Some were kept as pets.
Some were eaten. In the deep jungle, hunting was never a sport, and animals were never killed
except for food. He began to ride with his father on the great black stallion, Thunder. Jungle folk had
given him that name because of the sound of his huge hooves. At first, Kit rode on his father's lap.
Then he sat ahead of the saddle, clinging to the long black mane.

At seven, his father brought him a shaggy little pony and he rode proudly alongside his father. This
was a sight to see. Little Kit on his tiny pony could almost ride under Thunder's belly. Almost every
morning when his father was home and not away on some mysterious mission, they would ride,
before the day became too hot. Kit loved these times best; the quiet jungle paths, the shade of the
high trees, and the chattering of birds and monkeys in the branches. Unseen animals scurried among
the thick bushes as they approached. Always his father would identify the unseen animals by the
sound of their movement. And as they rode slowly by, his father named trees and bushes and fruits
and berries, and told him which were good to eat, which were not, and which had curative powers.
These little lessons were repeated daily, and gradually sank into the small head, never to be forgotten.
There were endless things to learn, but it was all fun. His father was a good swimmer, and they
frequently stopped by a quiet pool. And while their horse and pony grazed, Kit learned to swim on
the surface and under the water. And he learned to dive, at first from the bank, then from greater
heights. And, from his father, the little boy learned the arts of self-defense boxing, wrestling, and
karate. He practiced these with Guran and his other pygmy friends. At first he was no match for them,
but with constant practice and exercise he grew wiry and strong, and soon could hold his own. His
father was a great hunter who knew all the skills of the jungle folk and a few more they had not
mastered. With him, Kit practiced shooting the bow and arrow, and throwing spears, skills the
pygmies had first taught him.

Then, in a remote clearing, he learned the use of fire arms, a skill upon which his life would depend a
hundred times over in the years ahead. He started target practice with small-caliber pistols and rifles,
and gradually worked up to larger weapons. His father, a dead shot, was amazed by his proficiency.
Within a few years, he was even out shooting his father, much to the big man's delight. But at no
time did they use animals or birds for target practice. While he was being taught the deadly use of
weapons, both father and mother filled him with a knowledge of the uniqueness and precious quality
of all living things. Animals were only killed in self-defense, or for food. In the jungle, hunters
depended on their weapons and skills for survival, never for sport. This attitude was ingrained in
young Kit. Another attitude he learned concerned fighting other humans, with weapons or bare-
handed. Again, in the jungle code-save for occasional ceremonial games or boyish play--fighting a
man was a serious matter. Whether with knife or fist, you fought to save your own life. Such fights,
in the grim jungle code, were fights to the death. Years would pass before Kit learned to box and
wrestle for mere pleasure or exercise.

But there was more to learn than the skills of the jungle. There were reading, writing, and arithmetic.
Kit learned these strange arts-unknown to his pygmy companions-from his beautiful mother. Sitting
at her feet in the Skull Cave, or outside on the dais of the Skull Throne, he would patiently write his
alphabet and multiplication tables, and struggle through the elementary readers. These books showed
a strange world of houses, bicycles, automobiles, and little boys and girls in odd clothing. Kit had
never seen a house, nor a pair of shoes, and his only clothing was a loincloth, like Guran's. Mother

carefully explained the pictures to him, the trains and planes and cities and skyscrapers and
policemen. But they were only words, and meant nothing to the little boy.

His pygmy friends were puzzled and irritated by these mysterious lessons, which seemed useless to
them, and served only to take up Kit's time and cut into their fun together. But Guran watched
curiously, and Kit insisted that he share his lessons with him. Guran refused at first. This made Kit
unhappy, and he refused to look at his books or tablets unless Guran would do the same. So Guran
joined him at the feet of his beautiful mother, and learned the mysteries of the little books. In a race
history dating back to the Stone Age, Guran became the first pygmy to read and write and do
arithmetic. This had a profound effect upon him, and years later, when he became ruler of the Bandar,
he installed teachers and a system of education among his fierce little people.

THE TIGER

One day, word came that a large wounded tiger was terrorizing the fields of the Wambesi. The
Wambesi had no weapons to cope with this marauder and asked the Phantom to help them. People
were always surprised to learn that tigers lived in this jungle. It is well-known that lions and tigers do
not inhabit the same areas, yet here they both were in the Bangalla jungle, avoiding each other
whenever possible. Lions had been the lords of this jungle for eons, lording it over leopards, panthers,
and all the rest. When the tigers appeared, the lions tried to assert their authority and destroy them,
but the lions soon changed tactics. They learned that a full-grown male lion was barely a match for a
male tiger. The battles that were staged were bloody, with the tiger winning the advantage. So the
great cats respected each other, and divided territories accordingly. But how did tigers get to
Bangalla? The answer-as his father explained to young Kit one day-is a curious one. A shipload of
wild animals bound for the European zoos was wrecked, during a storm, on Bangalla's rocky coast.
While the ship shook itself apart in the violent surf, most of the animals escaped onto the land. Many
of them had never before been seen in Bangalla. Kangaroo, Indian elephants (with the small ears),
bears, mountain wolves, and many others, including a dozen tigers. Some were destroyed by animals
and hunters. Some survived and multiplied. The tigers were among the latter.
In a few short generations, they had become native to Bangalla.

But the tigers was still a strange and awesome cat to the jungle folk. News that a wounded man-eater
was abroad chilled their blood. Phantom!

Kit begged to go along with his father. He went, over his mother's strenuous objections, when his
father promised he'd come nowhere near the battle. Guran went along as an extra precaution. Kit
rode proudly on Shaggy, his little pony, next to his father on mighty black Thunder. Guran followed
on a little mare named Natala, after an ancient queen. As they neared the Wambesi village, they saw
evidences of the tiger. A few oxen, brutally slain, and barely eaten. "This tiger must be berserk,"
commented the father. "Unlike leopards who occasionally kill out of pure bloodlust, the tiger kills to
eat. This one is mad." The boys shivered. A mad tiger!

The Wambesi were waiting behind closed gates in their compound. It should be said that the
Wambesi, old friends of the Phantom, were among the bravest warriors in the jungle. Occasionally
they captured big cats in pits or even with massed spears. But this great mad tiger was too much.
They took him where they had last seen the monster, thrashing through their barley fields. The
Phantom had brought along a heavy rifle, a single-shot type that could bring down an elephant, if
properly aimed. He also carried a heavy spear and two pistols at his belt. He instructed Kit and Guran
to remain in the village. The Wambesi looked curiously at Kit, not knowing who the boy might be
and too agitated to care at that moment. Kit was unhappy. He wanted to go along, but his father said
no, sternly, and the dispute ended there, followed by a shout and an uproar in the village.


Horrified, all at the gates looked inside the compound. A terrifying sight! The tiger had gotten into
the village, over the wall, and was stalking a group of terrified women and children running toward
the gate. There was sudden pandemonium. All ran in all directions, shouting and screaming. All save
Guran, Kit, and his father, who put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "Wait here," be said, and ran
forward with his heavy spear. His rifle was left behind. With people milling in all directions between
him and the stalking tiger, he couldn't shoot.

The uproar had one good result. It halted the tiger momentarily. It crouched near a hut, snarling,
watching the terrified screeching crowd crisscrossing, falling, jumping, and running round him. Then,
as the crowd scattered, there was a clearing. The Phantom, spear in his hands, faced the crouching
monster. And monster it was. He'd never seen a bigger tiger. It has been said that no one man in all
history ever faced a full-grown Bangalla tiger with only a spear. An entire war party of warriors has
been known to spear a great cat to death with a score of spears, but one man? Never.

Now, as the Wambesi froze and stared from all sides, there was a sudden deathly silence. Back at the
gates, Kit and Guran watched. Trembling, Guran touched Kit's shoulder to comfort him. The little
boy seemed attentive, but completely unafraid. Perhaps he was unaware of the danger his father
faced. Perhaps, to him, it was just another illustrated lesson.

Not a sound anywhere. Even the crackling and chattering from the surrounding jungle seemed to
have hushed. All eyes-of the people on the ground, of birds and monkeys in the trees, furry animals
in the bushes-all eyes were watching. The Phantom, spear held poised in two hands, pointed toward
the crouched tiger and studied the beast. A broken spearhead protruded from a flank. The beast had
been wounded by a careless or terrified spearsman. A painful wound ... hence its fury. The Phantom
knew cats. He would have liked to have helped this one to escape, but it was too late. The tiger had
focused upon him. The enemy. Man with a spear. His jaws widened and a great roar surged from him,
a roar that froze every vestige of animal- or birdlife for a mile around. And then he leaped-ten feet
long, eight-hundred pounds of iron muscle, six-inch fangs-leaped at the man. There is no more
frightening sight in all nature than the charge of the tiger. The great bulk moves like a flash. The roar
paralyzes. The Phantom met the charge by driving the point of his heavy spear into the heart of the
tiger. His powerful body strained, held for a moment that was brief but long enough, then went down
under the momentum and weight of the tiger's charge. All watched without moving. A tiger on top of
a man, the man hidden under the huge body. Then movement, from under the tiger, as one arm
emerged . . . then a leg, as the man crawled out from under the beast. The tiger was dead when he hit
the ground.

The man stood silently for a moment, looking at the dead animal. There was no feeling of triumph in
him, only sorrow that this had had to be. He loved all animals. All about him respected this moment
of silence. Then he turned slowly and smiled toward Kit in the background.

Kit shouted happily and ran toward him. That was the signal for all. There was bedlam in the
Wambesi village. Hundreds poured in from outside the walls, from the fields and hills where they
bad hidden. The jungle came alive with crackling and chattering as the birds, the monkeys, and furry
animals passed on news of the event in their own manner. And the tom-toms began to beat, passing
on the story from valley to valley, over jungle and desert, so that all the world might know.

After a kiss and embrace, Kit stood proudly by his father as the Wambesi swarmed about him. A few
boys started hitting the dead tiger with sticks and stones. The Phantom called to them. "Stop," he said.
"Skin the tiger for the value of its hide. Then carry the body to the fields where the carrion may feed
upon it. For such is the chain of life in the jungle. But do not dishonor yourselves by mistreating the
dead beast. It only followed its nature." Shamefaced, the boys did as they were told, and the
Wambesi who were wise in the ways of jungle life cheered and applauded this wisdom. And Kit
looked up at his father in admiration. Another lesson to be remembered. And like many another boy

with a father he admires, Kit told himself that day, "When I grow up, I want to be like him." He told
as much to Guran and Guran agreed that it would be a good thing.

His father was not always in the Deep Woods. Sometimes he was away for days and weeks,
sometimes for months. He called these absences "missions," and Kit was uncertain what they meant,
only that his father was busy somewhere doing something. But during these missions, the people
around Kit were tense. The pygmies kept watch at the secret entrances, and his mother waited up at
the Cave mouth until long after dark each night. Sometimes she would sit with Kit until he was
asleep on his pile of furs. She read to him, but sometimes she couldn't continue because she was too
worried and nervous. Usually, warning shouts of welcome from the woods told them be was near,
and all rushed to the clearing before the Cave to await him. Then would come the sounds of hooves
like an approaching storm as Thunder came racing through the waterfall bearing the powerful
masked figure. That was a time of rejoicing, kissing, and hugging. He rarely spoke of where he had
been, or what he had done, but was happy to relax before a fire with his wife and son, his pygmy and
animal friends, and enjoy a homecoming feast.

Once or twice he came back nursing wounds, a knife cut in his shoulder, a grazing bullet wound on
his arm. Then beautiful mother anxiously cleansed and bound his wounds as he assured her they
were trivial and didn't hurt. Once they were not trivial. This time there were no distant welcoming
cries from the pygmy sentries. Thunder raced through the falls with his master clinging to his neck.
When Thunder stopped before the Skull Cave, the father slid to the ground in a dead faint. Six
pygmies carried the massive figure into the Cave to his pallet of animal furs. This time he was badly
wounded, suffering from a dozen knife and bullet wounds. It was a month before he could come out
of the Cave, and another month before he could ride on Thunder.

He told Kit and Guran the story. He'd been in a desperate battle with river pirates who had been
terrorizing villages along the banks. Though the boys were avid for details, he told them only that he
had boarded the steamer, met a few of the pirates, made his way to the ship's ammunition magazine,
and ignited it, blowing up the ship and sinking it. "How many pirates?" Kit wanted to know. "A few
dozen, I guess. I didn't have time to count," was the reply. "What happened to them all when the ship
sank?" The father answered, "The ones able to swim made it to shore, where the people were waiting
for them." One of the ones who made it to shore was his father, but barely. That was all he had to say
about the event, but word trickled through the jungle via messengers, tom-toms, and travelers.
Single-handed, he had overcome a dozen vicious armed bandits and blown up their ship, scattering
the remaining two dozen bandits to the tender mercies of the river crocodiles or the warriors waiting
on the shore. There were no policemen in the jungle. No law. Only the Phantom. But Kit would learn
more about that in time to come.

CHAPTER 3
MANY WONDERS

There were no few wonders in the ancient realm of the Phantom, and in the weeks and months that
followed, Kit was to see and hear many of them. First, the Cave itself contained amazing things in
those rocky chambers he had glimpsed ever since he crawled about on all fours. There was the
chamber filled with fiery flashes, called the "minor treasure room." Here, there were many chests,
some open, some closed. The open ones were filled to the top and often overflowing with red, green,
blue, and white stones, and with yellow metal discs of all sizes. These were gold, he was told. The
colored stones had names: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and others. They were also
called gems or jewels. Some of the chests held cups and dishes of gold, and there were hundreds of
rings with colored stones to be worn on the fingers, and yellow necklaces and bracelets-ornaments
with the colored stones-to be worn on arms, ankles or around the neck.


Kit played with the heaps of jewels and gold coins, building castles and walls and pits, as a child
does with sand in a sandbox or on the beach. He told Guran about the gold and jewels. Guran
pondered for a moment and asked, "What is it for?" Kit didn't know, and passed on the question to
his father, who explained that the gold- also called money-was used by people to buy things like food
and clothes. The ideas of buying, and money, had to be explained, and this was all strange to Kit, for
food and clothing were to be had for the taking in the jungle. "What do you use it for?" he asked. His
father explained that he rarely had any need for money, and that the gold of the treasure room was
used in the endless battle against evil. "What is evil?" Kit wanted to know. "I'll tell you about that
another time," his father answered, standing up. "And the bracelets, and the rings, and the jewels?"
Kit started to ask. "People-mostly women-like to wear them, to look pretty," he answered, walking
out.

Kit noticed that after a few hours of questions like that, his father always went out for a walk in the
open air. "But dear," he overheard beautiful mother saying one night, "you must answer the child's
questions. Be patient." "Patient?" his father said. "I answered at least three thousand questions today.
They're endless." As Kit dozed off he heard his mother's voice saying, "How else can he learn?"
How else? The next day he asked, "Where did you get all this gold and colored stones?" His father
sighed, and answered patiently. "It was all here when I was your age," he said. "It's been piling up for
centuries." He explained that his ancestors had on occasion done favors for rulers-kings, princes and
emperors-and the grateful rulers had heaped presents upon them. "When an emperor or king gives
you a chest of gold, it is impolite to refuse," he told the boy. Kit passed this lesson on to Guran the
next day, gravely informing him that if an emperor or king ever gave him a chest of gold or jewels,
he must accept it as it would be bad manners to refuse. Guran promised to remember.

Next to this chamber was another one that his father called the "major" treasure room. He
remembered this place with some qualms. This was where he had dropped the shining cup. Now he
learned that it was a drinking cup made from a single diamond. It had been made for an emperor
named Alexander whom some people called "the Great," his father told him. "Was he great?" Kit
asked. "He conquered most of the world," father replied. "Most of the world! He was great!"
exclaimed Kit. "That all depends on who is writing the story," father said. "He invaded other
countries, like Persia, burned down their cities, killed their kings and warriors, made slaves of their
women and children, and stole all their treasures. Does that sound great?" Kit shook his head. "Not to
the Persians," he said. "Exactly, it depends on who is writing the story," agreed his father.
"Now take this whip," he continued. It was an old leather whip with small metal stars on the ends of
the thongs. "This belonged to a man called Attila the Hun. He lived long ago, and his name has come
down to us as a bad, evil man, a barbarian, a destroyer. Do you know what Attila did? He invaded
other countries, burned down their cities, killed their kings and warriors, made slaves of their women
and children, and stole all their treasure. Who does he sound like?" "Like Alexander the Great!"
shouted Kit.

"Darius, the Persian, whom he conquered was no different," continued his father warming to the
subject. "Alexander the Great, Darius the Persian, Attila the Hun, Caesar of Rome, Hannibal of
Carthage, Napoleon of France: all gang lords leading their hordes of mobsters to loot and kill." So
ended the history lesson for that day. In later years, when Kit studied history at a school, he realized
that his father had unusual opinions about history, and practically everything else. But then, he was
an unusual man.

There were other rare things in the major treasure room, which was actually a small museum. A dead
viper floated inside an ancient green flask. "The asp that bit Cleopatra," his father said, and told him
the story of Egypt's famed queen. Two great swords hung on the wall encased in glass. He took them
out carefully and let the boy feel them. They were too heavy for him to hold. "This one is Excalibur,
the sword of King Arthur. And this, Durandal, the sword of Roland. In their day, they were thought
to be magic swords, and perhaps they were." He told Kit the stirring tales of the heroes, England's

Arthur and France's Roland. Near Durandal hung an ivory horn, also the horn of Roland, on which he
blew his dying breath.

There were other things: a golden laurel wreath that had rested on Caesar's head; a curly black lady's
wig that had been worn by an actor playing the girl's role, Juliet, in the first production of the play
Romeo and Juliet. He was to hear more of that wig another time. Inside another glass case was a
musical instrument made of bone, the lyre of an ancient blind poet named Homer. And much more.
"Does this all belong to us?" Kit asked in wonderment. His father shook his head. "These things have
come to us through the centuries by various hands, for safekeeping. Because of wars, fires, floods,
volcanic eruptions, thieves and vandals, many such treasures of old have been lost forever. We are
the guardians of these things for all people."

In another chamber, hanging behind sliding doors, were row upon row of clothes such as his father
wore. "These were worn by my father; these by his father; these by his father, and so on and so
forth." It did not seem strange to Kit that all these men of the olden times had worn skintight suits
and hoods and masks like his father wore. Except for the pygmies, who wore loincloths as he did, Kit
had never seen another man except his father, so he assumed that this was how all other men dressed.
In another chamber, there were shelves with big heavy books on them. His father often spent time
writing in one of these books when he returned from one of his mysterious missions. These books,
his father explained, were the chronicles of the Phantom and added that he was too young to know
about them now but that soon he would know. Kit was not curious and did not object. He knew what
books were about, spelling and grammar and arithmetic. Dull. He couldn't dream of the excitement
and magical adventures in these huge dusty volumes.

Outside the Cave, there were even greater wonders. Riding bareback on his little pony, which he
named Shaggy, he would canter on the jungle trails with his father, mounted on the mighty black
stallion, Thunder. And he was taken to some of the secret places. First, there was the Whispering
Grove where they spent a night sleeping on the ground. The wind that blew through the trees made a
peculiar sound. It was almost as if it were saying Phantom-Phan-tom. Others had noticed that sound
and had another name for the place: the Phantom Grove. Jungle folk avoided it, for the weird
whisper of the wind in the trees frightened them and the place was said to be haunted.

Not far from the Whispering Grove was the ocean, and a hidden cove. This was the Golden Beach of
Keela-Wee, said by many to be the most beautiful place in the world. Behind it was a backdrop of
thick jungle and distant mountains. Ahead was the vast, rolling, green and sapphire sea, with sharp
coral reefs that prevented even small ships or boats from reaching this hidden beach. The beach itself
was unique and extraordinary. This Golden Beach of Keela-Wee was the color of gold because half
of the sand was actually pure gold dust. In the center of the beach was a small hut made of carved
green jade. Father explained that this golden beach and the jade hut had been a gift to a seventeenth
century Phantom from the great black emperor, Joonkar. Since then, every Phantom had spent his
honeymoon night in this jade hut on the Golden Beach. But they were not the only ones.

The great and friendly tribes of the Wambesi and Lion- go lived in the nearby jungle. Each spring,
they held mass weddings on the Golden Beach. It was to see this that his father brought Kit there on
this first visit. When they arrived, the mass wedding was in progress. Kit watched in fascination.
These were the first people he had ever seen outside the Deep Woods. There were about two hundred
couples on the beach. The pretty brides wore gay sarongs, and flowers in their long black hair. The
young bride- grooms wearing loincloths, also had necklaces of flowers.

When Kit and his father rode upon the beach, the couples were kneeling, facing two priests who
wore bright red robes and waved yellow banners as they performed the marriage rites. All heads
turned to see the man and boy, and all smiled at the sight of their friend, the Phantom. The rites
continued. Then the couples, hand in hand, leaped into the sea, laughing and shouting, then returned

to the beach and rolled in the sand. When they stood up, they were all the color of gold, for the
golden sand stuck to their skin.

Then each couple, hand in hand, walked through the small jade hut and this passage completed the
ceremony. The couples dashed off into the woods. The golden sand on their bodies was a symbol of
their recent marriage, and they refrained from washing it off as long as possible. For days afterward,
one could see golden couples moving happily through the woods, laughing and singing and playing.
After they had all left the beach, Kit and his father walked into the jade hut. It was intricately carved,
and the sunlight shone through the tiny lace openings, making intricate patterns of light and shadow
on the jade floor. The little hut was like a huge hollow gem. "I spent my wedding night here with
your mother," his father told Kit, "as did my fathers and their wives before me. Someday, you will
marry and bring your bride here." Kit looked at him with wide eyes. "Who will I marry?" he asked.
His father laughed. "Don't worry. You'll find her. Or maybe she'll find you." He couldn't know how
prophetic these words were.

Kit raced across the golden beach and leaped into the sea. He was a good swimmer, but his only
experience had been in cool jungle pools and swift streams. The warm salt water was a surprise. He
frolicked in the clear calm water, diving down to the sand bottom, and then swam through the gentle
surf to the great coral reefs where the waves from the sea broke with a roar and a shower of foam. He
cut himself slightly on the sharp coral, then swam back to the beach and rolled in the golden sand as
the bridal party had done. Now, covered with gold, he ran laughing to the jade hut and entered it as
his smiling father watched. "Now, I'm married," he shouted.

The Whispering Grove had been tingly and spooky. The Golden Beach was beautiful. But the
greatest thrill was yet to come. The Phantom's Garden of Eden.

They rode for a day and night through the jungle, near the ocean shore. Then they came to a high
bank overlooking a broad river that ran from the jungle into the sea. Across the river was a green
island, heavily wooded, with a white beach. Beyond the island were the roaring breakers of the ocean.
Kit and his father climbed a big tree on the bank. That was fun in itself. Near the top, he saw that two
heavy ropes stretched from the tree, high above the river, to a tall tree on the island shore. One of the
ropes slanted downward from the tree they were in; the other rope slanted upward. Following
instructions he put his arms around his father's neck and held on tightly. A short rope was passed
around him, tying him securely to his father's chest. "Mustn't fall into the river, it's filled with
piranha," he was told. He learned later that this was a dangerous fish. His father grasped a heavy iron
ring that hung from the rope. "Here we go," he said. And hanging onto the ring, they slid swiftly
down the rope and so crossed the river. Kit looked down at the brown and green water far below. It
seemed so inviting and peaceful. But what lurked beneath the surface? Piranha? They reached the
other side, and this was the strangest and most exciting of all the things Kit had yet seen or even
imagined in his short life.

As they climbed down the tree on the island beach, some animals were waiting for them. Kit stared.
He couldn't believe his eyes. There was a giraffe, a zebra, and an antelope. And a lion. And a leopard.
And a tiger. And they were all standing together, peacefully waiting. Kit knew about lions and
leopards. He had seen the big cat his father had killed in the Wambesi village. He looked at his father
with sudden fear, still tied to his broad chest. His father smiled. "Don't be afraid. They are all our
friends," he said. He dropped to the sand, and untied Kit. Instantly the animals pressed gently against
them, nuzzling them, grunting, and whinnying. The big cat purred. The lion and the tiger rubbed
against his father's legs, their backs arched, purring like giant housecats. It was all he could do to
hold his balance, for this tiger weighed about eight hundred pounds. The lion was almost as big. The
leopard was content with Kit who quickly lost his fear and rolled on the sand with the purring
velvety cat.


Then he walked along the beach with his father, the animals galloping and racing around them,
clearly expressing joy at their arrival. On the ocean side of the island, the water was cairn as a pond.
A quarter of a mile out, the waves broke over sharp coral reefs that protected this lagoon. The lagoon
itself was alive with fish of all sizes, some four or five feet long. As they watched, a long canoe
approached. Several natives were paddling. They reached the lagoon and dumped live fish into it
from large pots. Other larger live fish, tied in nets and pulled along underwater by the canoe, were
released in the lagoon. The big cats bounded into the water, thrashing about as they chased fish. Soon
they came out of the water, carrying their catch in their jaws. The Phantom waved to the fishermen
who waved as they paddled away. "The Mod," he explained. "The best fishermen of all the jungle
folk. They keep this lagoon supplied with live fish for the cats. I raised them to eat fish and to catch
their own. That is why they can live with the grass-eaters and not harm them."

It all seemed natural and normal enough to Kit as his father explained it. He watched the tiger tear
apart a fish as big as Kit himself. An antelope nibbled delicately on grass a few feet from the tiger's
great jaws. The giraffe stepped over the lion, also busily devouring his catch, to reach the leaves of
an overhanging branch. An elephant broke through the brush and trumpeted his welcome, then knelt,
as the Phantom stroked his trunk.

"I brought them all here when they were babies-cubs, and fawns-and taught them to live together. Kit,
do you remember Fuzzy and Stripes?" Kit stared at the lion and tiger. He had a vague memory of
rolling on the ground before the cave with the little cubs. So this was where they were taken when
they were too big for him to play with! "Stripes, Fuzzy!" he cried, starting toward them. The cats
raised their huge heads, their eyes blazing. His father held his arm. "Never go to them while they're
eating. They must be treated with care."

When the big cats were not feeding, they were as docile and playful as when they'd been cubs. But
his father took care that the play did not become too boisterous. Both Stripes and Fuzzy stood
patiently while Kit climbed on their backs and hugged their necks. His father straddled Stripes and
sat Kit in front of him. "How about a ride?" Kit nodded gleefully and they were off for a canter
across the beach on the great tiger's back, Fuzzy and Spots trotting alongside to join in the play. The
cats were not their only playmates. Flap-ears, the elephant, knelt obediently at Kit's command of
"down, Flap-ears," and he toured the little island on the broad back. Even Slim, the gentle giraffe,
stood by, patient and long-suffering, while Kit enjoyed his game of climbing a tree and sliding down
the long spotted neck. Kit raced through the high grass with the antelopes and rode the skittish zebra.
His father taught him how to catch live fish with his hands in the lagoon. This required standing
motionless in the warm clear water until an inquisitive fish swam too close. Kit lost quite a few of
the slippery fish that squirmed out of his hands, but he was finally able to hang onto one, and bore
his catch in triumph to his watching father on the sand. They built a little fire on the beach and
cooked their fish while the great cats lay near them, watching, and blinking. Behind the cats stood
the antelopes and other horned grass-eaters, with the zebras and giraffe. In the background, Flap-ears
watched, occasionally pulling up a trunkful of grass and stuffing it into his red mouth. All the
animals were fascinated by the bright fire, but none came too close. His father had cooked here
before and they had learned to avoid the bright plumes of flame.

One morning, his father took one of the big fish from the lagoon and carried it to the river side of the
island. There, as Kit and the animals watched, he tossed it into the river. The big salt water fish had
barely hit the surface when the water around it foamed. Small shapes leaped at it, seemingly in a fury.
The water boiled with red blood, then all subsided and cleared. The small creatures-foot- long fish-
darted away, and the large salt water fish was now only a skeleton as it sank to the shallow sand
bottom. Kit stared, shaken by the violence of the attack. "Piranha," his father said. "The river is thick
with them. That's why no animal from the other side ever crosses to this island. And these animals
have learned to stay out of the river." Kit noticed that all the animals, including the big cats, had
recoiled at the sight and sound of the attack. Some had hissed or grunted. He also noticed that none

of them came too near the water's edge. "You'll be coming here often in the future. Never forget the
piranha," his father said. He never forgot.

They spent two days and two nights on this enchanted island. During the day, his father spent hours
training and retraining the animals to various word and signal commands. Kit watched with delight
as the animals responded, lying, sitting, running, fetching, staying, and a variety of others. He was
watching an expert animal-trainer at work. There was never a harsh word used; only kindness,
patience, and rewards of food when a lesson was well- learned. Kit could not know that generations
of Phantoms had developed their own techniques for handling animals of all kinds, and had passed
their knowledge down to each succeeding generation. These were the lessons that Kit was receiving
now, and there would be more. He would never forget them.

At night, they slept on the beach, on pallets of grass. Overhead were the blazing stars. Kit began to
learn some of their names, to distinguish between planets and stars, and to learn something of their
nature. He learned a few of the more prominent constellations, Orion the Hunter, the Seven Sisters of
the Pleiades, the Big Bear or Big Dipper, the Little Bear, and others. He learned to find the North
Star and to know that falling stars in the sky were meteors no larger than pebbles, or they might be
meteorites as big as a house!

Now it was time to go. Kit protested, unhappily clutching Fuzzy's mane. "Mother's waiting for us
and she will worry," his father told him. Almost tearful, Kit said good-bye to the animals, hugging
each one in turn. Fuzzy, Stripes, Spots, Flap-ears, Slim, and all the rest. Then as the animal host
stood in a circle around the big tree, the boy and his father climbed up to the ropes. Once more he
was secured to his father's chest and clung to his neck. With a last look at the circle of watching eyes
below, his father grasped the ring on the return rope, and they sped across the wide green-gold river.
Looking down, Kit now realized the danger and violence that lurked under those calm waters.
They reached the thorn corral, where Thunder and Shaggy greeted them happily. They raced back on
the jungle path, passed the Golden Beach of Keela-wee, passed the Whispering Grove, had a quick
dip in a cool jungle pool, and then on. Soon, they could hear the distant roar of the waterfall. They
were near home. A pygmy, bow and arrow in hand, rose silently out of the bushes to greet them, then
another. They were at the edge of the Deep Woods. Other pygmy warriors appeared out of the
thickets, laughing and shouting, and Kit shut his eyes and clung tightly to Shaggy as they raced
through the waterfalls. Then came the roar of a hundred Bandar to greet them, the Skull Throne and
Cave, and beautiful mother waiting with open arms.

Excited and happy to be home again, the boy couldn't wait to tell her about his adventures. He
skimmed quickly over the Whispering Grove and the Golden Beach, for Eden was fresher in his
mind. Bubbling and dancing with joy, he told her about Stripes and Fuzzy and Spots and all the rest,
and about catching fish with his bare hands. But, to his amazement, his mother turned pale. "Fuzzy,
Stripes, Spots? How big are they?" she asked in a strained voice. "This big!" Kit shouted, measuring
off a ten-foot space. He started to go on, but mother, after one horrified and quick examination of his
little body, rushed out of the Cave. Kit was puzzled. He ran after her. She reached his father at the
Skull Throne.

"You took that child to Eden, with that full-grown tiger, and lion and leopard?" she cried.

"It was quite safe, dear. He enjoyed it," said his father calmly.

"Enjoyed it?" she fairly screamed, quivering with rage. "He could have been mangled, killed."

The pygmies watched from the background with wide eyes. This was an unusual moment in the
Deep Woods. No one had ever shouted in anger at the Phantom. In later years, Kit was to meet many
girls and women, and some would be shrill or hysterical for various reasons, but he never forgot his

father at this time. His mother was so angry she had lost control of herself, beating with her tiny fists
on the broad chest of the masked man who towered a head and a half above her. His massive arms
enclosed her, drawing her up from the ground, carrying her toward the Skull Cave like a child.
His voice was deep and calm, and she was suddenly quiet, as they entered the Cave.

"He was quite safe, dear. He enjoyed it."

CHAPTER 4
THE PHANTOM CHRONICLES

Kit had always been curious about the Chamber of Chronicles in the Skull Cave. This was a place
with long shelves packed with large leather-bound volumes. Though his father had never forbidden
him the chamber, he had never encouraged it. But as Kit learned to read, he became more curious.
One day, he went in and pulled one of the volumes from the shelf. It was about four times as big as
his story books and so heavy that he could hardly carry it. He placed it carefully on the rock floor
and opened it. A torch burning in a nearby wall socket gave him light to read by, but he was
disappointed. This was not like the print in his books. It was an unfamiliar scrawl. He had not yet
learned about longhand script. His father found him on the floor with the folio volume and answered
his questions about it.

"That one you've picked is over three hundred years old, and was written by one of your grandfathers
about twelve times removed." Kit puzzled over that. That meant his great great great great great great
great great great great great grandfather. "Wow!" he said. "Are all these books written by
grandfathers?" he asked.

His father explained. Each generation wrote about his adventures, experiences, plans, and thoughts in
these chronicles.

"But the writing is so funny," Kit said.

His father explained about the difference between printing and longhand. He showed Kit the
Chronicle of the very first Phantom, the ancestor of them all. Though kept dusted, the volume had
the dry, dusty, musty odor of centuries, like the walls of old castles. The pages were not made of
paper, but of vellum, a fine parchment of kidskin. They read the first entry, dated February 17, 1536.
"Today I swore an oath on the skull of my father's murderer."

Kit waited expectantly for more, but his father sat in silence for a moment. He seemed moved by
what he had just read. "That is where it all started," he said softly.

"What started? Who murdered his father? What is an oath?" The questions poured out of Kit. His
father closed the book. "An oath is a promise you make to yourself," he explained. "I'll tell you more
about all that at a later time. For now, let me tell you a little about the first Phantom and his father."
Kit sat back on a fur skin on the rocky floor and waited expectantly. He loved his father's stories.
They were never made up, like Guran's or his mother's. They were all real, all true.

"The father you just heard about was a great sea captain. Your mother told you about Christopher
Columbus, didn't she?"

"Yes, he invented the New World," said Kit excitedly.

"Not invented, discovered," his father replied, explaining the difference. "When the father was a boy
he went with Columbus as his cabin boy on the Santa Maria on the first voyage to the New World."

"Wow!" said Kit.

"When Columbus returned to Spain, leaving the boy on the new settlement, on the island later called
Cuba, the boy became restless. With an Indian friend, he stole off in a small boat and went to the
mainland. He was possibly the first white man to set foot on what is now North America."

"He and an Indian friend? Like me and Guran!" said Kit excitedly. "What did they do?"

"They traveled far. They met the friendly Mayan Indians, and observed the human sacrifices of the
Aztec who captured them. But they escaped, and made their way north to the Great Desert . .

"What are human sacrifices?" interrupted Kit.

His father explained. The Aztecs killed their captives to honor their gods.

"How?" Kit wanted to know.

"They cut out their hearts with a black stone knife," his father replied.

"Really, dear," said beautiful mother who was passing in the corridor, "is that a nice thing to tell the
boy?"

"When he asks a question, he must have an answer," replied the father in the flat tone he used to end
a discussion. The mother sighed, shook her head, and started off. The father smiled.

"You should have married that banker and lived in a nice white house with a picket fence, like your
mother wanted you to," he said.

She laughed, threw him a kiss and went on her way. Kit waited impatiently until she was out of sight.

"Cut Out their hearts with a black stone knife!" he shouted. "Did it hurt?"

"No, I think not. As I recall, the victims were unconscious. That is, the Aztecs put them to sleep."

"How?"

"They bent them over a stone and broke their backs," said father. Mother heard this on her way back
to another room. She shook her head and sighed again, but did not argue this time.

"Later," continued the father, "the cabin boy and his Indian friend named Caribo found a flat-topped
peak in the desert, called a mesa. On top of this, they made a home they called the "Acne," which is
an eagle's nest. That was in"-he glanced at the book-"1497. We still have an Aerie, and someday you
will visit it."

He went on with the tale. The cabin boy returned to the Old World and grew up to be a great sea
captain. Years later, he went on his last voyage. With him was his grown son, whose name was Kit.
The ship was attacked by Singg pirates in the bay of Bangalla. The father and all the crew were
killed, except Kit, who escaped to shore, wounded, where he was found by the pygmies and nursed
back to health.

"His name was Kit too?" Kit asked. His father nodded.


"So is mine," he said. Kit was amazed. It had never occurred to him that his father had a name, other
than "dear," which his mother used.

"That Kit was the first Phantom who swore the oath on the skull of his father's murderer!" said Kit,
excited now that mysteries were being explained. "But how did he know the murderer?"

"The dead pirate was washed up on the beach, not long after the raid, probably killed in a brawl. Kit
had seen him stab his father. And the dead pirate was wearing his father's clothes."

Days passed in the chamber of Chronicles. While Guran and his other pygmy friends waited vainly
outside the Cave, Kit sat fascinated with the tales of his ancestors. Every free moment his father had
was spent there. Kit would pounce upon him as soon as he was awake, drag him away from the table
after meals, and sit up until bedtime, asking for more tales. The tales were endless, for four hundred
years and twenty generations of Phantoms' experience were on those shelves, and each Phantom had
lived a full, adventure-packed life.

NATALA

The tale of a seventeenth century ancestor thrilled Kit. This Phantom went to rescue a reigning queen
named Natala, who had been kidnapped for ransom by the notorious pirate, Redbeard. Redbeard
ruled an entire pirate fleet and a pirate city. He was a giant, a master swordsman and a powerful
fighter who could kill men with his bare hands as easily as with weapons. He had fought his way to
leadership of the toughest and wildest gang of pirates on the earth at that time. Redbeard tamed them
all, forced discipline in his town and on his fleets, and became the scourge of the seven seas. So
efficient and deadly were his pirate crews that the royal fleets of the great powers avoided battle with
them.

Natala, the Queen of France-called the world's most beautiful woman-was on her way to Spain for a
royal wedding with the king there, when Redbeard's pirates took her small fleet by surprise and
attacked her. The pirates took all of the treasures Natala had brought as her dowry, looted the
supplies, and dumped all the surviving crews on a remote shore. Redbeard took all the pretty young
women as wives for his men, all of Natala's ships to add to his fleet, and Natala. He roared with
delight when he realized the unexpected prize he had nabbed. The Queen of France! What a beauty
she was. Raven-black hair, flashing gray eyes, a proud strong young body, smooth skin with the pale
flush of a damask rose. Red- beard had roamed the world, but he had never seen such a magnificent
woman. He was strongly tempted to make her his lady, but Redbeard Was a businessman first, and
he knew the great powers would pay a queen's ransom for her safe return. But he never got the
ransom, because the seventeenth century Phantom got there first.

This Phantom, the sixth of the line-and called the Sixth by Kit's father-was captured in his first
attempt to rescue Natala. For the enjoyment of his crews and himself, Redbeard arranged deadly
contests for this masked would-be rescuer. All watched in the large plaza of the pirate town-shouting
pirates and their laughing ladies, on the walls, in windows and doors, on benches, and Red- beard
himself at a long table drinking beakers of wine- while at a barred window, where she was
imprisoned, sat Queen Natala. Who was this masked man in the strange costume, she wondered, who
had made such a hopeless attempt to save her from this roaring crew?

First, this Sixth Phantom was to face Gillaim, a lean agile panther of a man, who-next to Redbeard
himself- was the deadliest swordsman in the pirate kingdom. He faced the big masked man
arrogantly, announcing he would be merciful, and kill him quickly. For this, as all battles in this
place, was to the death. The boisterous crowd quieted, in anticipation of the slaughter. Smiling,
Gillaim moved in confidently for the kill, his legs like steel springs. Natala covered her eyes with her
hands. There was a flash and clang of steel. Gillaim's sword flew into the air, and Gillaim was flat on

his back on the cobblestone street with the point of the masked man's sword at his throat. It had all
happened faster than the eye could see. There was a hush. Not a sound, except the lapping of waves
at the nearby wharfs, and the screech of a seabird. Gillaim stared up, his eyes popping, his face
waxen and sweating as he faced death. But the masked man turned away and faced Redbeard and the
throng.

"I have not come here to kill," he said in a voice that was deep and soft and yet could be heard all
over the plaza. "I have come to return the Queen Natala to her home."

All looked at Redbeard who, even as he sat at his table, towered over most men.

"I make the rules," roared Redbeard. "You will fight to the death."

The masked man took a step toward Redbeard, and twenty swords were drawn from their scabbards.
The crowd waited expectantly. The masked man laughed, a loud laugh that roiled across the plaza.
And he threw his sword high into the air.

"Next!" he shouted.

Next was The Crusher, a man built like a bull. His arms were as wide as a large man's thighs. He had
massive hands, legs like tree trunks, a shaven bullet head on a short heavy neck that sank into
shoulders as wide as a barn door. The Crusher fought bare-handed. His specialty was to get men's
heads between his palms and crush their skulls like eggshells. (Young Kit enjoyed that part
thoroughly, and practiced without success on Guran).

This was to be a bare-handed fight to the death. Once again the crowd was bushed. They had all seen
The Crusher in action more than once. It was not a pretty sight, and most of the women turned away
to avoid it. The Crusher moved slowly toward the masked man, his hands poised to grab. The
masked man circled him, then suddenly moved in, his fist exploding on The Crusher's jaw. It is said
that a wrestler can always defeat a boxer. This may be true if the wrestler can get his arms around the
boxer. To do that, he must be conscious. But The Crusher was no longer conscious. He hit the
pavement with a crash. The masked man had struck with all his might, a blow that might have
knocked the head off a lesser man. The Crusher remained sprawled on the stones, his jaw out of
shape. He was to remain unconscious for many hours. The crowd stared, not believing what they had
seen. Once again, no sound from this pirate host. Only the lapping of waves and the sound of
seabirds. The masked man glanced at The Crusher.

"He will live. I have not come here to kill. I have come to return the Queen Natala to her home."
He glanced up at the barred window where the beautiful queen was watching. Who was her
mysterious champion, she wondered? Now the crowd turned to Redbeard. What would he do?
Execute the brash stranger? But the stranger didn't wait.

"I know your rules here, Redbeard," he said. "To head this pirate band, you must remain undefeated.
And any man may challenge you to combat."

Redbeard banged his silver goblet on the table and roared with laughter. Then he rose to his full
height. This Redbeard was a giant, a head taller than the big masked man, and a foot wider. Also, he
moved like a cat, and never in his young, violent life had any man defeated him at anything,
including chess. Redbeard pulled a sword from the scabbard of a man next to him and tossed it to the
masked man.

"You are correct. That is the rule. I made it myself. I made it, because I like to fight, and I enjoying
killing rivals. Let it be swords."

This was not a quick affair like the duel with Gillaim. Redbeard was faster and more skillful, and the
battle see sawed back and forth. Both men received cuts and scratches as they barely avoided more
serious wounds. Both were bleeding in a dozen places. In her tower room, Natala was no longer
hiding her eyes, but watching with dread fascination. The crowd was no longer quiet, but roaring
encouragement to their leader and following the fighters as they moved from the pavement, onto a
wall, then downstairs and back to the pavement again, on tables and chairs, in doorways, and in the
street.

Then-a clang of steel, a flash of metal in the sunlight- as Redbeard's sword sailed out of his hand, and
he was pressed against a wall with the masked man's sword at his throat.

Now the crowd was silent. This, more than all the rest, was unbelievable. Redbeard, defeated? Was a
change of leadership at hand? Redbeard, sweating and bloody, looked steadily at the masked man.
He would not have granted mercy, and he did not ask for mercy now. All he said-panting for breath-
was "Well done. Too bad I couldn't have stayed to know you." The masked man stepped back, and to
the amazement of everyone, threw away his sword.

"Put up your fists," he said. "This fight isn't over yet."

Redbeard needed no further invitation. If the masked man was mad enough to miss his chance, he'd
not get a second one. He sprang at the smaller masked man, pouncing on him like a cat. His powerful
arms grasped him. Redbeard could break a man's spine as if it were a match. But not this man's. The
body he held was like steel. Steel fingers gripped his throat, throttling him. And as he staggered back,
a steel fist landed on his jaw, and Redbeard staggered. Before he could right himself, another blow,
then another and another, crunched on his red-bearded jaw, and the pirate king toppled like a high
tree, crashing his full length to the pavement. He lay not a dozen yards from The Crusher, who was
still unconscious. The masked man grasped a sword and turned toward the watching crowd.

"Is there any man among you who challenges me?" he said in a full deep voice. No one replied. He
took a step forward and the entire circle of watchers retreated a step.

"I will say it once more. Is there any man among you who wants to face me with any weapon, or
bare-handed?"

The crowd looked at Gillaim, at The Crusher, at Red- beard, and there was silence.

"Then I am your leader. You will obey me in all things. Do you all hear?"

"We hear," they replied in chorus.

"Is there any man among you who does not agree?"

Silence.

"Bring Queen Natala to me," he commanded.

She was brought before him, this proud, beautiful girl, her flashing gray eyes and soft voice filled
with gratitude and questions. Who was he? But he was wounded and tired now, and sank wearily
onto a bench. As the others watched from a safe distance, she bathed his wounds with spirits, and
bound them with cloth torn from her lacy petticoats.

"This tale has a surprising ending," his father told the enraptured Kit, "and I'll make it brief, because
it's almost time for dinner' What did the Sixth Phantom do with the pirates and the beautiful queen?

First, he returned Natala and her stolen ships to her country, along with her dowry of treasure. Pirates
served as the missing royal crew. All this took time to arrange, and Natala spent many weeks dining
and talking with her masked rescuer. He told her about the jungle and the Deep Woods, and this
Skull Cave. (Young Kit looked about wonderingly during this.) And he told her of quiet woodland
trails and jungle pools and golden beaches and much else. And she told him of her life at court, of
her loneliness and unhappiness there, and of the stranger whom she was to marry-a man she had
never seen except in portraits-a man who was older than her late father, a man said to be a tyrant. It
was a marriage of state-intended as a union between two nations-and that was that.

Now it was time to leave, and she knew that she loved this quiet powerful masked man. And he
knew she loved him. For his part, he loved this gentle, warm, and beautiful girl. And she knew he
loved her. But she was the Queen, and that was that. Her fleet departed from the pirate city. The
masked man sailed a long part of the way, leaving Redbeard, Gillaim, and The Crusher behind as his
lieutenants, to rule in his absence. His final order to them was, "do nothing until I return."

After a few idyllic days of sailing along the coast, a long war canoe filled with Mori warriors
paddled alongside the frigate, and the masked man climbed in. He waved farewell to his beautiful
queen until the ship was across the horizon. Then he headed back to the former pirate city. The Sixth
had decided that piracy was over, and none challenged him. The vicious and criminal men among
them were jailed. The others followed his command, for he had a daring plan. He would form a
Jungle Patrol. A dozen small nations bordered the vast jungle, and along this long border, there was
no law, no authority. The region was infested with bandits, who attacked caravans and travelers, and
raided villages, and there were none to stop them. The Sixth Phantom decided that this patrol would
fill that function, and be supported by the treasuries of all the small nations involved. This took time
to develop and caused amazement in the capitals, when they knew who the Jungle Patrol would be:
Redbeard and his pirate crews! "Who better, to fight land pirates, than sea pirates?" asked the Sixth.
And the rulers agreed, for they were afraid to refuse. But it was a good thing. And the Jungle Patrol,
founded with pirates, exists to this very day.

"What happened to Queen Natala?" demanded Kit.

"Yes!" asked the mother who was also listening.

The beautiful queen returned to her fawning courtiers and their sickly compliments. And she met the
king who would be her husband, and he was a lecherous, diseased, stupid man, though a king. She
thought of the masked man, and the quiet jungle trails and the Deep Woods with its waterfall. And
one night, the very night before the state wedding, she slipped out of the harbor on one of her ships
with the ex-pirate crew which had remained with her. And they sailed back to Bangalla. One day, as
the Sixth sat quietly on that Skull Throne (Kit and his mother looked out of the Cave toward the
throne in the sunlight), excited pygmies rushed to tell him that a personage was approaching.
Approaching she was, Natala, the Queen of France, riding in a jeweled howdah, on an elephant,
followed by a dozen more elephants, bearing chests of gifts. The Sixth caught her in his arms as she
stepped from the kneeling elephant and-"I quote"-said Kit's father, glancing at the Chronicles that
contained this tale "I kissed her warm lips for the first time and looked into her gray eyes and I knew
that she was mine and I felt as though a thousand rockets had exploded in my heart."

"How beautiful," mother sighed.

"Did they get married on the Golden Beach of Keela-wee in the jade hut?" cried young Kit.

"No. There was no jade hunt at Keela-Wee then. That came later. But marry they did, and all the
chiefs of the jungle came to watch, and all the pirate crew, who were now jungle patrolmen. And

who do you supposed was best man? Redbeard! And the chief ushers? Gillaim and The Crusher."

"What a story!" said Kit, rushing out to tell Guran all about it. He paused at the Cave mouth. "Will
you tell me about the jade hut and the Golden Beach next?"

"Not today," said his father. "I'm hoarse."

THE GOLDEN BEACH OF KEELA-WEE

In the northeastern stretches of the jungle, near the mountain country, there is a plateau rising about
five hundred feet above the jungle floor. It is several miles in length and width and is now as wooded
as the jungle below. This thick foliage covers and largely conceals vast ruins which are evidence of a
civilization that once flourished there. In olden times, these ruins were magnificent palaces, temples,
and gardens, the capital city of the ancient black kingdom of Nyahpura. The powerful mountain
princes were feudal vassals to the black emperors of Nyapura whose rule also extended deep into the
western jungle, including the portion known as the Deep Woods. This kingdom reached its zenith in
the latter half of the seventeenth century under the rule of the mighty Emperor Joonkar. It is said that
his palace and gardens and fountains and the elegance of his court rivaled Versailles. Caravans
bearing the wealth of the continent poured into Nyahpura. The emperor maintained a powerful army.
Brilliant court festivities displayed the beauty of the ladies and the richness of their jewels and gowns.
Ballets and orchestral music prepared by masters from Europe entertained these gatherings, and
hundreds of chefs prepared the week-long banquets with delicacies from the four corners of the earth.
The Emperor Joonkar was a powerful young man, a beneficent, wise ruler, a renowned sportsman
and hunter, and a bachelor. He had resisted the busy matchmakers of his court for some years,
preferring his freedom among the lovely ladies of the court. But at last, to the relief of all the
husbands, a bride was on her way to Nyahpura. She was a young princess, a titian-haired beauty,
Sheeba, of the distant mountain state of Adzahbadar. Joonkar had met her only once before, at a
conference of rulers, and had fallen madly in love. So it was decided, and she was on the high seas,
on her way to Joonkar.

At the edge of his kingdom that bordered the sea, there was a secret cove that for generations had
been the personal beach of the emperors. It was always guarded by royal sentries, and all trespassing
was punishable by death. The reason for this security was that by a unique geological quirk, the
sands of this amazing beach consisted of fifty percent pure gold dust. Hence, the Golden Beach of
Keela-Wee.

While awaiting his bride's arrival, Joonkar occupied himself with affairs of state: polo-at which he
was an expert-and hunting. He horrified his court with his hunting. For Joonkar was a bold and
powerful man, and he preferred to hunt on foot with crossbow, steel arrows and short lance. So it
happened one day that his beaters were moving through a part of the jungle that was new to them,
and they waved torches and banged on drums to drive animals toward their waiting ruler. It also
happened that this was only a short distance from the Deep Woods. This land was under the
protection of the Phantom. He had made it an animal preserve, and had forbidden all hunting there,
except for the pygmies who depended upon this area for their meat. Their sentries brought news to
him that hunters had entered the preserve and he raced to it.

Joonkar was having a fine day. He'd never seen so much game. With his steel arrows, he shot
antelope, wild boar, zebra, wildebeest, a gorilla, and a leopard; a royal slaughter. Nothing would be
wasted, however. The eatables would be served at the court tables, and the noneatables would be
stuffed and mounted. Now, the unexpected happened. The beaters had flushed a lioness with her
cubs, and before guards could rush to his aid, the lioness charged Joonkar. His crossbow was empty
at that moment. There was no time to get an arrow, which might have been useless in any case at
such short range. But he stood his ground with the short lance, an equally futile weapon against the

charge of the lioness. In a flash Joonkar realized he faced death, and that there was no escape. The
guards watched, petrified. When the charging big cat was within ten feet of the emperor, a strange
masked figure dropped from the trees onto the beast's back. The lioness whirled in midair, twisting to
fight off this surprise opponent. But a long knife reached her heart, and she fell to the ground, dead.
A happy roar came from the beaters and guards as they rushed toward their monarch. He looked at
his rescuer. Skintight costume? Mask! A large powerful man. "I thank you for my life. Who are
you?" asked the black emperor.

"You are welcome. You are also trespassing. No hunting is permitted here," said the Phantom,
pointing to the piles of dead animals.

Joonkar's guards took a step forward. He laughed, and waved them back.

"Do you know who I am?" he said.

"Obviously a man of importance," said the masked man. "You came to this area, ignorant that it was
a preserve, so you are excused. You will not hunt here again."

Joonkar stiffened. As might be expected, though a wise and generous man, he was arrogant, an
absolute ruler, and son of absolute rulers. No one in his lifetime had forbidden him anything.

"I, in turn, forgive your ignorance, or you would not address me in this manner," he said. "I am the
Emperor Joonkar."

"I thought you might be," said the masked man. "I've heard about you."

Joonkar was amazed. "You knew; yet you spoke to me like that? Don't you realize I rule this land we
stand on?"

"No man rules this jungle. It is common land. And no hunting is permitted here, except by the
Bandar, who take limited supplies of meat," said the masked man.

Now Joonkar turned cool and deadly. "Whoever you and the Bandar are, you will learn that I rule
this jungle. This is rich hunting and I intend to return here at my pleasure," he said.

"I regret that. I have warned you," said the masked man. Joonkar held back his wrath and studied him.
Who could he be? With confidence and arrogance equal to his own? For his part, the masked man
had no fear of kings or emperors. His own mother had been Natala, Queen of France. This was the
Seventh Phantom.

"I forgive your impudence because you saved my life," said Joonkar. "I thank you and I free you
without punishment because of that. But now we are quits. Go your way. Be off with you. Let the
hunt continue."

"I have said, you will not hunt here," said the Seventh in a strong voice. Exasperated now, Joonkar
signaled his guards. As they stepped toward the masked man, a small arrow struck the tree trunk a
foot above Joonkar's head. All looked into the trees. In each tree was a pygmy with an arrow in a
bow. They were recognized at once. The pygmy poison people!

"These are the Bandar," said the Seventh.


Joonkar looked around at his guards. They were clearly paralyzed by the sight of the pygmies, one
scratch of whose arrows meant instant death. But he was not about to retreat before this masked man.

"It appears to be a standoff. I will not be humiliated this way. We will settle this, man to man. You
have a knife. Draw it," he said. The guards stared at their ruler.

"I have no wish to kill you," said the masked man.

"You will have no chance," shouted Joonkar, furious now. "Draw your knife while you can!"

Joonkar was not being foolhardy. He was as big as the masked man, and an expert with sword or
knife. But the Seventh did not draw his knife. He stood with his hands on his hips, and said coolly:
"Don't be foolish, Joonkar. Go home and wait for your bride."

So the masked man had known all about him all along. Enraged, he rushed at him, the knife held
high. The masked man's hands moved so fast that they were a blur to the stunned watchers. Joonkar's
knife flew into the air, and Joonkar was on his knees before the calm masked man.

"I told you to go home," he said.

Furious at being humiliated before his men, Joonkar leaped at him. "I'll kill you with my hands," he
shouted. "Or you'll have to kill me!"

Joonkar was a powerful man, trained in all the arts of hand-to-hand combat by experts. He had never
been beaten, until now. An iron fist crunched on his royal jaw, then a quick twist hurled him hard
onto the ground, and the masked man was upon him, hands at his throat. The guards started to move
forward. A pygmy twanged his bow. They stopped. Do I have to choke sense into you, Joonkar?"
said the Seventh, not even breathing hard. Joonkar thrashed about. The iron fingers tightened,
touching a nerve in his neck. He lost consciousness. After a time, he opened his yes. He was sitting
against a tree. The masked man stood with folded arms watching him. "I didn't want to hurt you. I
made you sleep," he said. Joonkar breathed deeply.

"You could have killed me as I would have killed you," he said.

"I do not kill, except to save my life. It was not necessary," said the Seventh.

Joonkar got unsteadily to his feet. "Whoever you are, you are a good man, and I have acted badly.
Can you forgive me?"

The masked man held out his hand. "I would like to be your friend, Joonkar," he said. The emperor
smiled and took his hand. And the guards on the ground and the pygmies in the trees cheered.
They became friends. The Seventh was an occasional secret visitor at the great court. He enjoyed late
dinners along with Joonkar in his private dining room, while the emperor awaited his bride. But she
was overdue. A disheveled messenger arrived with the surprising explanation. Her ship had been
captured by Barbary pirates, and Sheeba was being held for ransom. The Seventh was startled by this.
His own mother had gone through a similar trial.

The emperor was furious. He ordered out his troops and they marched to sea. Lying a mile offshore
was the fleet of the Barbary pirates. On the main ship a large iron cage hung on the main mast, above
the crow's nest. In it was a beautiful woman, the princess. Beneath the cage, a barrel was tied.

A smirking pirate emissary came ashore. He bowed in mock courtesy to the enraged emperor, who
sat on a big white horse.

"A million pounds in gold for her safe delivery," he said. "She is secure-if slightly uncomfortable-but
unharmed, as you can see through your glass," he said.

Joonkar started down from his mount. "I'll strangle you with my own hands and dump everyone of
your pirate crew into boiling oil," he roared.

"Excellency," cried the emissary, no longer smirking as he retreated from Joonkar's fury, "Note the
barrel beneath the cage." Joonkar's hands were at his throat. He went to his knees. "Gunpowder!" he
choked out the word. "They're watching. If I die, they blow it up." Joonkar dropped the man to the
ground and studied the cage through his telescope. The barrel was there with a long fuse attached.

"If any attempt is made to save her, they light the fuse," said the emissary, regaining his composure.

"What are your terms for ransom?"

"Two million pounds in gold."

"You said one million."

"The price has gone up. It will go up one million each hour we wait."

"Pay it. Save her," roared Joonkar.

"There is more," said the emissary. "This bay is an excellent harbor. We need a port here. You will
grant us this land and coast."

Joonkar rocked on his feet, close to an explosion. The Seventh, who had been watching in the bushes,
stepped out.

"His Excellency requires one hour to make a decision," he said.

"Another million?" said the emissary, looking curiously at the masked man.

The masked man nodded. "Go back to your ship and report that." -

The emissary made a mock curtsey to Joonkar, returned to his skiff where oarsmen awaited him, and
rowed back to the ship.

"What can I do?" said Joonkar, sitting on a log, his face in his hands.

"You cannot accept their terms. A pirate city here?" said the Seventh.

"But Sheeba!"

They looked at the ship. The sun had set, lamps were being lit on shipboard. One large lamp burned
brightly near the cage.

"She is so near. And my army here ... powerless," said Joonkar. Behind them, rank upon rank of
horsemen sat awaiting orders. Foot soldiers with muskets, canoneers on caissons, all were helpless.

"My mother was almost killed by pirates. My ancestors have always fought pirates. Some met their
deaths by pirates' hands. I will get Sheeba for you."

"Too risky," said Joonkar. "If you fail . . ."

"I will not fail. You have no alternative," said this Phantom, the seventh generation of his line. "I
must go. We have less than an hour."

It was dark now as he slipped into the water, and swam quietly toward the boat. In a moment, he
could no longer be seen from shore where Joonkar and his aides watched anxiously. They could see
the dark hulk of the ship, the lanterns, and the cage high up, illuminated by the nearby lamp. Joonkar
knelt on the sandy beach as did his aides, and they prayed softly to their god.

The masked man swam to the bow of the ship where a heavy anchor chain held fast. The ship was
noisy. The emissary had made his report, and the pirates were a happy lot. Obviously they had won
the dare. Joonkar could not refuse this mountainous ransom for his lady- love. They were already
sharing the gold and planning their new port. Happy pirates are riotous pirates. As the masked man
quietly climbed up the anchor chain, half the crew was drunk. But they had posted sentries on all
sides. And, high up on the mainmast, was a pirate with a lighted torch in hand, ready to light the fuse
if need be. Clinging to the gunwales, the masked man could vaguely make out Sheeba in the cage.
The poor girl, aware of the ransom terms and of the barrel just below her cage, was shaking with fear.
She stared down at the man with the torch just below her. He too, was nervous. If the worst came to
the worst, he'd have to light the fuse and make a quick descent, or go up with her.

The masked man waited. He could see the emissary on the poop deck with a large fat man who might
be the pirate chief. They were looking at a clock. "Fifteen minutes more," he heard them say. "If we
have to light the fuse, will it blow up the mast?" The other replied, "No, just the cage."

Five minutes now. Most of the men were on the side of the ship facing the shore, watching for any
sign of movement. "They have to send a boat now," someone said.

At that moment, by prearrangement, there was activity on shore. Lights flashed, and a small skiff
with several lighted lamps on it was seen being shoved into the water. "They're coming to meet our
terms," shouted the emissary. The pirates roared with pleasure, and, at that moment, the Seventh
slipped onto the deck. One sentry was near, his back to the masked man. A karate chop dropped him
without a sound. The masked man raced over the short space and reached the main mast where a
pirate was stationed. He turned in surprise and alarm as a hard fist slammed him to the deck with a
broken neck. ("The Phantom is rough on roughnecks"---old jungle saying.) And in a moment, he was
racing up the mainmast. The man in the crow's nest, looking to shore, was unaware of the dark figure
until it reached him. At the same time, the men below looked up. There was a moment of confusion.
A boat was coming from shore with terms of agreement? Who was this?

In that moment, the masked man grasped the torch, and slammed the holder hard so that he collapsed,
hanging over the edge of the crow's nest. All this took only split seconds as the masked man stepped
on him and reached the cage, torch in one hand. Sheeba stared, terrified by the sight of the masked
man in torchlight. She screamed, a scream that could be heard ashore in the quiet dark night. And
ashore, Joonkar reacted to it, writhing in agony. There was a crude lock on the cage. The masked
man broke it with one powerful twist as he quieted the screaming girl with the words, "I am from
Joonkar, I am your friend. Come." As he grasped her arm, he lighted the fuse on the barrel. Then
dropped the burning torch on a pile he had noticed on the deck. By now, the pirates were in action.
They started firing their muskets and pistols wildly at the mast. Ashore, Joonkar and his army stared
anxiously at the flashes of gunfire, wondering what was happening. The masked man and Sheeba
might not have survived the fusilade had they remained another moment, but they didn't remain.
Holding her by the waist, he dived high and wide into the air, through the dark night, into the black
water. They had barely hit the surface when there was an enormous explosion above them. The

barrel and cage had blown up. Ashore, the army of Joonkar recoiled at the sound, and Joonkar buried
his face in his hands.

On deck, the pirates were too occupied to worry about the man and woman in the water. The torch,
flung to the deck, had landed-not by accident-on a pile of ammunition and gunpowder cases. Within
thirty seconds of the first explosion, there was another one, then another ten times as great that blew
the entire ship in half. Flames roared up from the deck. Surviving pirates leaped into the sea. Ashore,
Joonkar and his hosts watched the conflagration in stunned horror. Sheeba was there-and the new
friend-the masked man. There were shouts and cries from the many swimmers in the water, escaping
from the burning ship. "Get them all," roared Joonkar, tears flowing on his cheeks. The soldiers
rushed knee-deep into the dark water. But the first arrivals were not pirates. Drenched and exhausted,
the masked man walked onto shore, with Sheeba in his arms. The men stared at them as if they were
apparitions from the dead.

"She's not hurt, Joonkar," said the Seventh as the emperor rushed to them. "Just fainted."

"Did they get married?" asked young Kit, enthralled by this tale.

"They did. It was a grand wedding. And who do you think was best man?"

"That Seventh Phantom?" shouted Kit.

"Right. And they spent their honeymoon night in the jade hut that Joonkar had built on the Golden
Beach for his bride. But the story has a sad ending, Kit."

Kit's eyes widened.

"A year later beautiful Empress Sheeba died in childbirth. Joonkar gave up his games and his hunting
and remained in seclusion for another year. And he never married again. Nor did he ever visit the
jade hut, for he could not bear to return there. He sent for your ancestor, and he said: "Twice you
saved my life. I do deed to you and your heirs, forever and a day, the Golden Beach of Keela-Wee
and the jade hut. And may you find happiness and contentment there as I did."

"That was a sad story," said young Kit.

"That's the way it was," said his father.

Kit loved these stories of his ancestors in the Chronicles, because all of these masked men in their
identical costumes blended together to become his father. And, in his mind, the First who founded
the line, the Sixth who married Queen Natala, the Seventh who was the friend of the black Emperor
Joonkar, and all the rest of the brave adventurous host were his father. But he came to realize that his
father-who spun off these tales of his ancestors by the dozen with the greatest of ease-rarely spoke of
his own deeds. Yet Kit recalled those endless secret missions, some of which ended almost tragically,
as he returned battered and wounded. What had he been doing all those times? When, under
persistent questioning, he did speak about them, he always made them sound like nothing,
unimportant compared to the glorious feats of his fore- bearers. Strangers brought reports of his
doings, but Kit remembered him speaking only about the fight with the river pirates; he made even
that one sound like nothing, although he had returned nearly dead. Again, strangers had brought the
full story of his tremendous victory.

Kit questioned Guran about this. Guran replied, "Like all brave men, your father is modest. He
doesn't care to speak of his own deeds."


"But all the ancestors were brave men and they spoke of their deeds," replied Kit, fresh from the
stories of the Chronicles.

"They wrote about their deeds in the books," said Guran. "Their voices are stilled now, so we do not
know if they told of their deeds as well, but since your father is much like them, it is to be doubted."

Kit was not satisfied.

"I would like to hear him tell about one of his missions as he talks about the others. I bet his are just
as wonderful," he continued loyally.

"Ask him to tell how he met your mother the first time," said Guran.

"Do you know?"

"Old Man Moze told me the story long ago," said Guran. "And many times since. He loves to tell it."

"Tell me," said Kit.

"Ask your father. Let him tell you," replied Guran.

Kit decided he would ask that night at dinner. As was usual in fair weather, they ate in the clearing
before the Skull Throne. On rainy days, the meals were taken inside the Skull Cave. This was a
special feast, wild boar. Kit himself had shot this dangerous animal several days before with a pygmy
arrow. He had been hunting with Guran and his friends when the beast rushed him.

"He could have been killed!" his horrified mother said, clutching him when she heard the news.

"But he wasn't," said his father proudly.

"To Kit, for providing this beautiful meal," said his father raising his wooden cup in a toast. The
juice of fruits, or spring water, were the only beverages in the Deep Woods. Sitting in the shadows of
the campfire, Guran and the other pygmies snapped their fingers in the clicking sound they made to
signify approval. Kit noticed that Old Man Moze was seated with Guran. That was unusual. The
Teller of Tales rarely came out of his own little cave in the woods. As his father carved the juicy
porker with his long hunting knife, Kit decided this was the time.

"Father, could you tell me a story?" he asked.

"Which story?" said his father busy at his task. Kit liked to hear his favorites again and again.

"A new story," he said.

"Hmm," said his father, considering. "Perhaps the tale of your great great grandfather and the Sultan
of Pukmar."

"No. Your own story. How you met mother."

That surprised his father. He glanced at beautiful mother sitting in the flickering campfire light.

"Did you tell him about that?"


"Not I," she said smiling.

He looked into the shadows.

"Guran?" he said.

"I told him only to ask about the tale. I told him not," he said grinning.

"Maybe another time," said the Twentieth.-

"Please, father," said Kit.

"Oh tell him," said beautiful mother. "It was a marvelous thing."

"Well, it was a simple matter. Your mother and her father were lost in the jungle. He was an explorer.
Some explorer! Didn't know north from south," he chuckled.

"My father was a scholar, a scientist," said his mother defensively.

"Right, and a famous one. An archeologist," he said, passing a portion of meat to her on a wooden
plate. "That's a man who digs up the ruins of ancient cities, Kit. He was looking for the lost city of
Pheenix, said to be buried in this jungle. But he never found it. I've heard rumors of it since in the
land of the Oogaan . . ."

"Father, what did you do?" demanded Kit impatiently.

"A simple matter, son," said his father passing a portion to him. "I found them and led them out.
They went home. I didn't see your mother for another year," he added, and for some reason glanced
at a chain that hung on a corner of the Skull Throne.

"Is that all?" demanded Kit.

"That's all," said his father, starting to eat.

"Oh, there was much more. Tell the boy," laughed his mother.

"We had a little trouble with a local tribe who lived in the trees, but it wasn't much."

"Lived in the trees? Like monkeys?" said Kit.

"Something like that," mumbled the Twentieth now busy with his meat.

'What else?" demanded Kit.

Kit looked helplessly toward Guran.

"Nothing else."

"That's no story," he said.

"Right. There isn't much to tell about it," said his father, as his mother shook her head hopelessly.
A thin voice came from the shadows. It was Old Man Moze, the Teller of Tales. Like most primitive
people who had no writing and thus kept no written records, the pygmies kept track of their own

history verbally. There was more than one Teller of Tales, and these men were the books, the
libraries, the records, and the histories of the tribe as they passed down the tales from generation to
generation. Of all the Tellers, Old Man Moze was the oldest and knew the most. There were
thousands of tales in orderly files in his mind, and, on all occasions, great or small, he brought forth a
suitable one. No one, including Old Man Moze, knew how old he was. His face and body looked as
though it were skillfully carved out of shining mahogany. His long hair and beard shone a dazzling
white in the firelight as he stepped forward and leaned on his knobby staff.

"But there is much to tell about it, O Ghost Who Walks," said Old Man Moze. "Have I not told the
great adventure to my people these many times, and shall I not tell it now to this son, this fruit of
your loins, this pride of the Skull Cave, this inheritor of the grand tradition, this future Keeper of the
Peace?"

Kit and Guran grinned at each other. They loved to hear Old Man Moze talk. He talked so strangely.

"I don't think it's necessary to hear it all now, Old Man Moze," said his father, paying close attention
to his plate. "Perhaps another time."

"Now!" shouted Kit.

"Now," said his mother smiling. "Please tell us all the tale, Old Man Moze."

The old man bowed to her, a courtly bow like a nobleman in a palace, and his old bones creaked like
a rusty hinge. He sat on a log near the fire, and, sipping spring water from a wooden cup, began the
tale in his reedy singsong fashion.

THE ROPE PEOPLE

Word came to us that a white man and his daughter were lost near the great trees. It was said they
searched for the lost city of Pheenix, which was a hopeless thing, since all know that this evil city
was destroyed by the gods and buried deep from the sight of men so that the memory of those bad
people would be gone forever. And so it is. (Kit glanced at Guran; the lost city of Pheenix? That was
something he'd like to hear about, too.)

So the Phantom set out from this place to find the lost people, and save them from the terrors of the
jungle. And mounted on his fiery steed called Lightning ("The sire of Thunder," said his father to Kit,
interrupting), he made his way to the place of the Great Trees. ("This part of the jungle was new to
me, Kit," said his father. "The trees there are gigantic. They almost touch the sky.")

Old Man Moze did not seem to mind interruptions. He simply halted the narrative, like a needle
being lifted from a phonograph record, and when the interruption was over, the needle was returned
to the record and he simply went on as though there had been no pause at all.

He rode among the great trees and soon found their tracks, and being a keen huntsman, had no
difficulty in following their trail. He found them at last, before a small campfire such as this one-an
old man and his beautiful young daughter with golden hair-(Old Man Moze nodded to Kit's mother at
this, and permitted himself a slight smile, which looked like a slow crack in old porcelain. Beautiful
mother smiled graciously at the compliment.) It must be said they were surprised and frightened at
the sight of this big masked stranger. (Beautiful mother nodded vigorously at that.) But he greeted
them with his calm voice and assured them he was their friend and had come to aid them. And they
were reassured and happy, for they had been afraid in the jungle night, and it is fortunate they had
not suffered injury or death before this. Their luggage bearers had deserted them days before, being

afraid to enter this unknown part of the jungle.

Then a curious thing happened, a thing such as one had never seen before. Ropes dropped from high
above, from the great trees, ropes with loops on the ends, and dropped so swiftly and accurately
about their shoulders and arms that the old man and his daughter were pulled up into the air before
anyone knew. A rope had not fallen upon the Phantom, but he leaped to the girl's rope, and, clinging
to it, was hoisted into the air with her. (That was scary, but thrilling," said his mother laughing.

"Shh," said Kit, annoyed to have the narrative broken.)

They were pulled high up, far above the ground so that their campfire was only a tiny flicker below,
like a star. Up, up, up, into the leafy boughs that seemed to touch the sky. (Old Man Moze was very
dramatic when he told this tale. His eyes flashed, his hands gestured like an actor.) High in the trees,
they found themselves in a strange village, for that is what was there. A village like many another,
save that it was built on platforms resting on heavy ropes among the high branches. Yes, there were
huts up there, and a clear place where the women pounded the nuts that made their bread, and where
they carved their meat. They had no fire in this place for fear of destroying the trees, and ate
uncooked meats. There were children there, and nursing mothers. And ropes were stretched from one
platform to another, and the people walked on these ropes in an amazing and fearless manner. If one
fell, as sometimes happened, there were ropes below to catch them.

It was amazing to see men, women, and children perched like birds on the ropes so high in the air. A
boy suddenly slipped and fell into the air as the captives arrived. He caught himself on a line below,
laughing, and none but the captives even looked at him.

While still hanging in the air on the rope of the girl, other strands were flung out at the Phantom,
binding him securely, so that he could not use his weapons. On reaching the top, the weapons were
taken from his belt. They were brought before the chief, who told them strangers were not permitted
in this land of the Rope People. Trespassers were killed, by being dropped to the ground from this
great height. A quick death, as if dropped from a cloud. But the chief and all the warriors looked at
the Phantom with excitement, and with suspicion.

"By your garb, you would pretend to be the Phantom, himself," said the chief, to the amazement of
the Phantom who had never known the Rope People.

"I do not pretend, I am," he replied.

"How can you be, when you profess ignorance of us and our ways? And yet if you are truly the
Phantom you would know us well."

This puzzled the Twentieth but he did not question it. There was some mystery here. It was soon
explained. The chief and leaders led him to a large hut. There on the wall were a series of drawings
crudely done, as though by a child, not like the work of good artists. But the Twentieth clearly
recognized the figures drawn there. There were four drawings of the Phantom. In the first, he stood
on a poorly drawn elephant. In the second he was holding a great boulder over his head. In the third
he was running, pursued by warriors with spears. And in the last he faced a man twice his height, a
giant.

"Now," said the chief of the Rope People, "if you are the Phantom as you pretend to be, you will
recognize that these are the feats you performed when you came here before. In the first picture, you
are seen capturing an elephant with your bare hands. In the second, you are shown moving a great
boulder. In the third, you avoided capture by our armed hunters for a full day. And in the last, you

defeated the champion of the jungle in a battle to the death."

The Twentieth was baffled and puzzled for he had never before seen these Rope People, nor had he
performed these feats. But he realized the truth.

("Yes," broke in the Twentieth as he listened to Old Man Moze. "I realized they were talking about
my father, not me. He had done all these things. From what I had read and heard of my ancestors, I
believe it is true to say that my father was the strongest man of all the Phantom line. As a child, I saw
him lift a horse as big as Thunder and carry him across a brook. But he never told me about these
Rope People or the feats he performed there." Kit glanced at Guran, who nodded. The Phantom men
did not talk about their accomplishments. They entered the facts in the Chronicles and left the talk to
their descendants).

"Thus he realized that his father had been there and done these amazing things," continued Old Man
Moze, as though there had been no interruption.

"Then," said the chief of the Rope People, "we cannot believe you are the Phantom, for that was
many years ago and he would be an old man by now, but you are a strong young man. After he
performed those deeds we made a pact of friendship with him. But we have no pact with you because
you cannot be the Phantom."

"But I am the Phantom," said the masked man.

"Then, to save your life and the lives of the man and the girl, you must prove you are the Phantom. If
you cannot prove it, you will all be thrown to the ground, to your deaths." And it was a long way to
the ground, as from a cloud in the sky.

"What must I do to prove this to you?" he asked. And the chief said, "You must do again these feats
you did then." And there was nothing else for him to do, or the girl and the old man would die. And
he would die. So he - agreed.

("How could you capture an elephant with no weapons, and all those other things?" cried Kit,
anxious and worried as though the events had not yet happened. "I worried about that myself, Kit.
These things seemed difficult or impossible. But there was no way out," replied his father.)

And so he was lowered on a rope to the ground far below. The girl and her father remained in the
village in the treetops. And his first task, to capture an elephant with no weapons, had to be
accomplished by sundown, or the prisoners would be dashed to the earth, as from a cloud. So he
thought and thought and an idea came to him. And he searched among the trees and bushes until he
found what he needed, a special kind of tough jungle vine called Banga. And he found a sharp stone-
for he had no other tool-and he pounded this vine until he had cut it, for it was the toughest and
hardest of all jungle vines. (The listening pygmies nodded at the name, for they knew this vine.) And
then he searched until he found the trail that the elephants make to their waterhole. And he found it.
And he climb a tree that grew by the elephants' trail, and he waited. Time passed. The Rope People
watched from their village high above. And the girl and the old man watched because it was a long
way to the ground, and they would die if he failed.

Now a large male elephant moved slowly through the bushes on the trail, now and then grasping a
bunch of sweet grass and stuffing it into his red mouth. The Phantom waited, with the long vine in
his hand. And as the elephant moved below him, he leaped upon its back. The great beast reared on
his hind legs and trumpeted his rage and searched his back with his long trunk. But the Phantom
moved quickly on the broad back and avoided the searching trunk that would dash him to the ground
beneath the huge feet. And the elephant did all it knew to dislodge this being on its back. It rolled off

the grass, and on its back. And the Phantom hopped off and on again as it climbed back to its feet.
And when his chance came, he passed the vine between the big jaws and pulled it so that it was tight
inside the great mouth and thrice fastened it so it would not be dislodged. Then, holding the loose
ends, he quickly tied them around a huge wide tree, and lo and behold, the elephant was caught! For
the mouth of this great beast was as tender as a baby, and as he tugged, the tough vine bit into the
soft flesh, and he was helpless.

And the Phantom looked up at the trees and shouted to the watchers above, saying, "I have done the
deed. I have captured the elephant without weapons." And they shouted down from the treetops,
saying it was true. And the warriors of the Rope People grasped their spears and slid down the long
ropes to the ground, for they prized the flesh of the elephant, and it was rare that they could satisfy
their hunger, and now they would kill it and eat it. But before they could reach the beast, the
Phantom had loosened the vine so that it was free, and the beast charged off into the bush. The Rope
people cried in anger at him. "Why did you do that? Why did you free the elephant that we wished to
slaughter and eat?"

"I agreed to capture it. I did not agree to kill it," said the Phantom. And even in their anger, they had
to say that it was true.

Now, they led him to the second task. On a small hill there was a huge boulder partly buried in the
earth. The warriors said, "If you are the Phantom you can move this as you did before." And he was
perplexed, for this was a huge rock indeed.

("As big as a small house," said the Twentieth, as Kit stared at him with wide eyes. "I was perplexed.
I knew my father was a man of unusual strength. But how had he moved that?")

Perplexed, he studied the great boulder, and indeed it was larger than any man or any ten men could
lift. And the girl and her old father watched from high in the sky, and they were afraid, for it was a
long fall to the ground, as from a cloud. And the warriors watched and grinned at each other, for if he
failed, then he was not the Phantom, but an imposter. As he studied the boulder, he had an idea. He
began to dig in the earth around the boulder. It was packed down hard, but he dug and dug with his
hands like an anteater at an ant mound. And the hours passed. There were smaller rocks pressing
against the boulder, and he removed them and dug deeper, throwing the dirt on either side until the
great boulder was uncovered. Then he Went behind it and pushed. He pushed and pushed. But
though the boulder was on the slope of the little hill, it did not move. And his time was growing short.
Then he lay on his back and put his feet against the boulder, and pushed. And he pushed. And the
boulder moved, a little, then a little more, and more, until it rolled down the hill, smashing into a
large tree and knocking it to the ground.

("A man's legs are stronger than his arms," said his father to Kit, who sat completely enthralled.)
He turned to the watching warriors and said, "I have moved the boulder." And they had to say that
this was true. Now the time had come for the third task, and dozens of warriors came down the long
ropes with their weapons. Now they told him, "Our war party will hunt you until sunset, and you
must escape us. If we find you, we will kill you, for you have no arms. You will hide now and we
will not watch until the sound of the drums. Then our search begins," and they turned their backs and
he ran into the bush. It was like a children's game of hide and seek, but this was no game for him and
could end in his death. And the old man and the girl watched from high above, and they were afraid,
for it was a long fall to the ground, as from a cloud.

He raced among the bushes until he found a stream, then waded through it to hide his trail, for he
guessed the Rope People to be expert trackers. (The listening pygmies nodded. They knew this
jungle stratagem.) Then he moved out of the stream and up a slope to a rocky place. Where could he
hide? These Rope People knew the country as their home. He was strange to it. He looked at the

trees. No, not there. These people lived in the trees. Then came the sound of the drums and he knew
the hunt was on. The woods were filled with the shouts of the warriors as they began the search. And
the old man and the girl watched from high in the trees above, and they were afraid, for it was a long
fall to the ground, as from a cloud.

Now he ran, and he climbed, and he hid. And he ran again, and he climbed again, and he hid. And
sometimes the warriors saw him and they cried out, but he ran off and was gone. And sometimes
they came close enough to throw spears, but he dodged and ran behind trees and boulders and was
gone. But the Rope People were good hunters and, as the hours passed, they closed in on him from
all sides. Now they were close upon him. It was almost sunset, but it appeared there would be no
escape from the circle of armed warriors who closed in. Behind him was a cave. There was nowhere
else to go, so he dashed inside. The warriors laughed for they knew there was no escape from this
cave. It was a deep cave with stone spears growing from the ceiling and stone spears growing from
the floors. And he hid among them as the warriors cautiously approached the entrance to the cave.
But he was not alone in the cave. Great eyes burned in the dark place. A low growl. It was a lion, a
huge male lion that had also taken refuge in the cave. And now it heard the shouts of the approaching
hunters and smelled the flesh of men, and with a mighty roar charged forward, first at the Phantom
who faced the beast. But as it neared him, he leaped high into the air, grasping a stone spear, and
held on so that the lion charged below him. And the lion rushed on just as the first warrior entered
the cave. And it went through the war party like a storm, tossing them from side to side like leaves in
the wind, and those that were not destroyed by the beast ran for their lives. And the lion pursued
them until they could reach the safety of their trees. Now the light was red in the sky and it was
sunset, and the Phantom came from the cave and shouted to the trees: "Your war party hunted me
and it is sunset and I am alive." And they had to say that this was true.

And now came the last task. He was to face the champion of the jungle in a fight to the death. The
Rope People had selected their champion. He was a giant who lived in a big stone hut. And the bones
of men he had slain were heaped about the hut, as were the bones of animals he had slain and eaten.
And some said he had also eaten the men, but it is not known if this was true. But he was a giant
indeed, as high as that sapling (said Old Man Moze pointing to a ten-foot tree), and as wide as that
entrance (pointing to the six-foot opening of the Skull Cave.) He had killed great cats with his bare
hands, and could uproot whole trees from the earth with the powerful embrace of his arms. And the
old man and the girl watched from high in the trees above, and they were afraid, for it was a long fall
to the ground, as from a cloud.

In a clearing beneath the village of the Rope People, the warriors brought the giant to meet the
Phantom. He had a heavy club as big as a man over one shoulder, and with it he could smash the
head of an elephant or crush the skull of a charging rhino, and this he had done. He laughed when he
saw the man he was to face, for the Rope People had promised him much meat and drink if he fought
the battle. And his laughter was like thunder on a dark night.

The Rope People climbed into their trees, and the entire village and their prisoners watched the battle
below. The giant swung his huge club. The Phantom dodged it and the club struck a large tree
cracking the trunk. The giant swung again and the Phantom dodged away. And the club struck the
ground and made a hole big enough for a boy to hide in. (Kit's wide eyes grew even wider at that.)
And then he laughed again as he raised his club a third time. For the Phantom had his back against a
stone wall and there was no retreat. He swung and the Phantom dodged, as quick as a hummingbird,
and ducked between the massive legs so that he was behind the giant. But the giant had swung his
club, hitting the stone wall. And the club broke in his hands.

Roaring like a pride of lions, he turned on the Phantom, but now the Phantom swung with all his
might and hit the giant hard in the belly. The giant-like many large creatures with big muscles-was
soft in the belly, and he bent over in pain. This brought his jaw lower so that the Phantom could

reach it. And reach it he did, but not one blow but a dozen, one after another stinging as fast as a
cloud of wasps with a fist like a rock. And the giant dropped to his knees, grasping the Phantom in
his mighty arms that could crack and uproot a big tree or crush a lion. But the Phantom did not wait
to be crushed like a lion or cracked like a tree. His hard fist hit under the chin of the giant, and again
and again, then more blows in the soft belly, then more on the jaw. And this was more than even a
giant could withstand and he slowly fell to the ground and stretched out on his back and stared at the
sky. His lips moved but he could make no sound. He was like an exhausted animal that the hunters
have run to the ground. And now by the terms of the battle, the giant must die, for this was a fight to
the death. There were large rocks at hand with which to smash a skull, or sharp pieces, to slice and
cut.

But the Phantom stepped back and called to the Rope People in the trees above. "I have defeated
your champion of the jungle. The deed is done." And the chief called down from his treetop, saying,
"You have defeated him and he is helpless against you. Now kill him, for it is your right." But the
Phantom replied, "It is not my wish to kill him, as it is not my wish to kill any man."

Now the Rope People cheered and shouted, and they came down their many long ropes, the men and
women and children, coming down the ropes from all the trees around him. And with them they
brought the old man and the girl. And the chief faced the Phantom and handed him his guns and he
said: "You are indeed the Phantom, our friend of old. For when you trapped the elephant you proved
your courage and cunning; and when you moved the boulder, your proved your wisdom and good
sense; and when you escaped all the armed warriors of our people, you proved your knowledge of
the jungle; and when you defeated the giant champion, you proved your strength. But it was when
you refused to kill him as he lay helpless before you that we knew you were indeed the Phantom, the
Ghost Who Walks, the Keeper of the Peace. For in that, you showed mercy; and in this jungle, that is
the rarest quality of all."

And after a great feast attended by all the Rope People and even the giant (who found it hard to
chew), the Phantom and the old man and the girl were free to go, and they went. And that is how
your father met your mother, Kit, and that is how the story ends," concluded Old Man Moze.
The pygmies snapped their fingers in approval and Kit clapped his hands. "And when did you and
mother marry?" he asked, shouting in his delight at the story.

"Not for a year or more afterward," said his father glancing at the chain on the Skull Throne. "She
took her father to their home because he was sick, and then returned to me."

Kit went to his father and embraced him.

"That was wonderful. The elephant and the big rock and all the warriors and the giant. Why didn't
you ever tell me that before?"

"It slipped my mind. I forgot it," said the Twentieth.

"You know, Kit," said his mother, laughing and embracing him, "I believe he really did."

CHAPTER 5
THE SECRETS

As Kit neared his twelfth birthday, an enormous and unexpected change in his life was to occur. Also
a new phase in his education began, as he was schooled in the secrets, traditions and responsibilities
of the Phantom. For four centuries, each generation had gone through similar teaching at about the
same age. At eleven going on twelve, Kit was tall, and unusually strong for his age. He had inherited

his father's physique, and his youthful muscles were becoming rounded, showing promise of the
powerful development to come.

Now Kit was led into the cool musty crypt in the Skull Cave. Nineteen generations of his ancestors
were buried there, and he read the inscriptions on the tablets; only the order of generations and their
dates. Thus:

The First 1516-1566; The Second 1555-1609; and so on. Nineteen engraved tablets fronting stone
caskets in vaults in the wall. In addition there were several tablets without dates, engraved only as
The Twentieth, and The Twenty-First. His father explained that the former would be his own burial
place; the latter would be Kit's. Kit laughed at this. Death is not a fact to an eleven-year- old going on
twelve. "I engraved 'The Twenty-First' for you the day you were born," his father explained. "You
may carve a similar tablet when you have your first-born son." Kit giggled at that.

The crypt became more than mere numbers and dates for Kit. His father brought out the large
volumes of the Chronicles, and they sat before the vault and read the ancestors' adventures in their
own words. In this way, each man became vivid and alive behind the anonymous mask and hood. Kit
had already heard many of the tales, of the Sixth who had wed Queen Natala, and the Seventh, who
had saved Emperor Joonkar, and there were more. Each Phantom had been an individual, strikingly
different from all others.

The Third, for example, had tried to abandon the Phantom line for the stage, in his youth. This third
Phantom-to-be-sent to England to be educated by monks- had run away from school to join the
theatrical company at the Globe Theatre under the direction of the popular playwright-actor-director
William Shakespeare. In those days all female parts were played by boys, and the Third- to-be had
the honor of playing Juliet in the first production of "Romeo and Juliet." The black wig in the major
treasure room was the very wig he had worn, placed on his head by the author. (It is reported that his
father, the Second, had witnessed his son playing the girl's role and almost had a heart attack.) But
when the time came, the actor could not resist the call of the Skull Cave and returned to the Deep
Woods to become the Third.

"You mean he almost didn't become the Phantom?' said Kit.

"Yes, the line almost stopped right there, just after it had begun," replied his father.

"Wow, that was close," said Kit.

"That was close," agreed his father.

"If he had stayed to be an actor, what would have happened to all of them?" he asked waving his
small hand at the vaults.

"Who knows?" said his father.

"Somebody must know," Kit insisted. "Where would you be, and where would we all be?"

"No one knows that, Kit," said his father, ending the conversation.
For the first time, Kit realized that life could be mysterious, and that, for some questions, there were
no answers.

Many of the costumes of these ancestors hung in airtight closets. Kit examined them, putting his
finger through tears in the cloth caused by knives and bullets, some of which had been fatal. From
the men's own words in the Chronicles and the very clothing they wore, Kit felt that he knew them

and loved and admired them. For they were all good men, trained from childhood to dedicate
themselves to their fellow men.

As Kit examined the costumes one day, one caught his attention. It was like the others, but was much
smaller. The Phantom males were big men, and tended to marry tall women, though an occasional
small beauty had found her way to the Skull Cave. There had even been one small Phantom-small
that is, by comparison. That Phantom, the Thirteenth, had been of average height, but as stocky and
powerful as a bull. To compensate for his size, he had wed a woman a head taller than himself, and
he was known affectionately to his descendants as "The Runt." For the most part, they were big men
like Kit's father.

Whose costume had this one been? It was smaller than the Runt's-Kit had seen that one-and was
shaped differently. It was narrowed in some places, wider in others. He asked his father about it. He
laughed.

"That belonged to my great great Aunt. She would be your great great great Aunt," he said to Kit.

Kit's mother, carrying a basket of laundry, paused at the entrance.

"Your family tree makes me dizzy," she said.

"Want to know something? It makes me dizzy, too," said his father.

"This costume?" asked Kit impatiently. "Did she wear it?" His father nodded. "A female Phantom? Is
that possible?" asked his mother.

"For a short time, she was the Phantom ... an unusual case," said the Twentieth.

"Tell me about it," said Kit excitedly.

"Wait until I hang up the wash, in the sun. I want to hear this," said his mother, hurrying off.
When his mother returned, they moved to the chamber of Chronicles. His father took a volume from
the shelf and glanced through it. "Just to refresh my memory," he said, and began the tale.

THE FEMALE PHANTOM

The Seventeenth Phantom (great grandfather to Kit's father), was born with a twin sister. The brother
and sister grew up in the Deep Woods and their life there was much the same as Kit's. From
generation to generation, there was little change here. Brother and sister learned to ride and swim and
hunt together. They learned the lore and ways of the jungle, and, at the age of twelve, were sent
together to Rome for their education. During their years in the Eternal City, the remarkable pair
amazed the patrician Romans; the boy with his physical skills, the girl, Julie, with her beauty.
The time came when the brother, grown to manhood, was called back to take his place on the Skull
Throne. Julie, turning down marriage offers from four counts, three dukes, and a prince of the royal
family, returned with the brother. This was a surprise to him. He thought she should stay and make a
life in the civilized world. But she found the people and life on the Continent effete and dissolute and
longed for the jungle. So they returned to the Skull Cave and he assumed the place and duties of their
late father who had died violently: the usual lot of the man who wore the Skull Ring.
After a few months of this, Julie began to wonder if she had made a mistake. She loved the Deep
Woods, but she was lonely now, since her twin brother was frequently away on his missions. He had
a few violent scrapes but thus far had returned unhurt. But while he was at home, they would ride
and hunt and swim together, Julie in her sarong, her brother now in the garb of the Phantom.
One night, there was a hurried call for help to the Skull Throne. Bandits had stopped a rich caravan

at the edge of the jungle, robbing, and killing. The Jungle Patrol had reached the scene too late and
followed the tracks of the bandits to a lake. The bandits had taken a large houseboat by force and
were anchored in the crocodile-infested waters. They had taken a hostage with them, a young
missionary traveling with the caravan, and threatened to kill him if the patrol tried to attack them.
The new Seventeenth Phantom-Julie's twin, in his role as commander of the patrol-sent word for
them to withdraw. Then he went out to rescue the missionary himself. But not alone. Julie made up
her mind to go along. The bandits were a cruel and dangerous lot. The odds were heavy, but she
could shoot as well as her brother, so she insisted on going along to help. Time was short, too short
to argue with a determined female twin, so she rode along, after promising she would do as he
ordered.

When they reached the lake, Julie remained hidden in the reeds near shore, and watched through
binoculars as her brother quietly approached the houseboat. Then Julie saw the captive missionary
tied to a post. He was young and handsome, and she could see that he looked tired and hungry, and
needed a bath. Bandages on his head and arm were evidence that he hadn't been taken without a
struggle. Julie's heart went out to him. Missionaries weren't supposed to know how to fight, even
young, handsome ones.

Her brother, meanwhile, was making his way to the houseboat in those dangerous waters. Julie's
heart sank as the snout of a crocodile appeared near him. The jaws snapped loudly, but missed as the
Seventeenth dived and veered away. A quick movement of her binoculars assured Julie that he was
safe and no one on deck had noticed. Now, in the twilight, he reached deck, and, waiting his chance,
climbed up. The bandits were below deck eating and drinking boisterously. The young missionary
stared as the strange masked figure climbed onto deck. By the stealthy approach, he guessed this was
a friend, a rescuer despite his forbidding appearance. But in spite of his caution, the Seventeenth
hadn't boarded unseen. A hidden sentry had watched and waited to see what this stranger was up to.
When he saw the masked man starting to cut the prisoner's bonds, he pressed the trigger of his rifle.
The Seventeenth fell to the deck and the feasting bandits rushed up from below at the gunshot. On
shore, Julie watched, terrified for her twin.

He was badly wounded, and the bandits looked at him curiously. They knew him by his costume, and
his reputation. One bandit even bore a skull mark on his jaw, from a previous encounter years before.
This would have been in the fight with the twins' father, but, to these ruffians, the Phantom was the
Phantom.

The bandit bearing the mark kicked the fallen masked man, then kicked him again, and tramped on
him. On shore, the watching Julie shuddered, feeling the pain herself.

"I've waited twenty years to get back at you," the bandit shouted, hurling obscenities at the helpless
figure.

"Stop that, you miserable cowards," cried the young missionary, straining at his ropes. A bandit
struck him hard in the face to silence him.

The bandit leader was a large, fat, bearded ruffian. He laughed at the missionary.

"Some hero . .. tried to save you ... couldn't save himself. Phantom, Ghost Who Walks! Man Who
Cannot Die!"

The bandit with the skull mark on his jaw aimed his pistol at the unconscious Phantom's head.

"Cannot die? Let's see if it's true!"


The leader stopped him.

"Of course it's not true, stupid," he said. "That's too easy. Tie his hands and legs."

This was done. The bandits looked at their leader. What now?

"Let the crocodiles have a taste of this ghost, this Man Who Cannot Die." The bandits roared their
approval, and shouting and laughing lifted the unconscious man and hurled him overboard.

"Wait, not yet," shouted the leader, but it was too late. The figure disappeared below the surface. The
leader had intended to delay this until dawn so they might watch, for it was now dark. They watched
for a time. A few crocodiles moved through the water, then dived under the surface. Most of the
bandits returned to their feast, but a few, including the leader, remained on deck, staring into the dark,
hoping to see some action in the water.

The moment her brother went overboard, Julie dived into the dark lake. On a belt at her waist was a
long knife, her only weapon. Both twins swam like fish, and she moved swiftly through the lake,
coming briefly up for a gulp of air, then going under again.

She reached her brother quickly near the lake bottom where his slight movements told her he was
still alive. She moved him along a short distance from the boat, then carefully brought his face to the
surface. He was half-conscious and gasped for air. The bandits at the railing strained their eyes. What
was going on at the bottom? Had the crocodiles reached their feast? One had, almost. His cold snout
grazed Julie's leg, and the huge jaws gaped wide. Julie instantly released her brother, and grasping
her knife, dived under the twelve-foot saurian. The twins had hunted crocodile before, for the
pygmies considered their meat a delicacy, and Julie knew what to do. She attacked the soft
underbelly and drove her knife into its heart. The crocodile threshed and slapped the water, churning
and foaming, and the bandits at the railing grinned. The crocs were tasting the ghost.

Julie dragged her brother ashore into the reeds, then onto the bank, and using mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation as their father had taught her to do, brought air into his lungs. He was almost gone. It
had been a close thing. There was a bullet wound in his back, and his body was bruised and torn
from the kicks and trampling. Julie was weeping and shaking with fury as she bent over her beloved
brother. He was still unconscious but his heart sounded strong. She tore off most of her wet sarong to
bind his back. She glanced back at the houseboat on the lake. Shouts of laughter and revelry sounded
across the dark water, and, in the feeble lamplight, she could just make out the faint figure of the
young missionary slumping in his ropes, still tied to the post.

Then she slowly pulled her brother through the grass back among the trees where their horses were
tethered. Julie was wiry and strong, but her brother was a big powerful young man, like all of his
breed. It took all her strength to lift him up upon his horse so that he lay across the saddle. Then,
mounting her mare, she slowly led him back to the Deep Woods.

The pygmies received them in silence. A Phantom returning in this fashion was a tradition among
them. Some came back alive, some dead. There would be another Phantom. But this time, there were
only the twins. They carried the brother into the cave and examined his wound. The bullet had
missed his spine, had not touched his heart, or lungs. He would live, he would be all right. But
recovery would take time, a long time.

A long time? Julie thought of the young missionary. Who could help him now? Not her brother. Not
the Jungle Patrol. She made a quick decision. She could ride and shoot as well as her brother. They
thought her brother dead. She would go back as the Phantom. She hurriedly prepared a costume out
of a bolt of material in the closet. She took her brother's guns and his mask, and, fully attired, stepped

out of the cave. The pygmies were amazed, for they had known Julie since she was a baby. They
tried to dissuade her from going, but she was firm. They wanted to accompany her, but she was in a
hurry and their dogtrot was too slow. But they could do something for her: start the tom-toms going
and send a message to the patrol to come to the lake shore.

And as she rode off, through the waterfall into the jungle, the tom-toms started, carrying the message
across valley and hill, picked up and relayed from tribe to tribe. Patrol-come to Black Lake.

Julie reached the lake. Two days and a night had passed. Was she too late? No, the houseboat was
still there, the bandits still carrying on their drinking and feasting. The patrol had not yet arrived.
They might never arrive. She wouldn't wait to see. She was afraid, but the memory of her brother's
treatment filled her with such anger that she did not hesitate, but dived into the dark water. There
were no encounters with crocodiles this time and she reached the boat safely. As she climbed over
the deck rail, near the missionary, a bandit was there and offering a drink of wine to the exhausted
captive. The missionary was refusing it, and the bandit hurled the wine into his face. At that moment,
he turned to see the masked figure leap upon the deck. His eyes popped. Instead of reaching for his
pistol, he turned and ran. The young missionary stared at her in a daze. Masked, like before, but
different. Her knife was out and she hurriedly sliced his ropes as three bandits raced upon the deck in
answer to their fellow's shouts. They too stared at the figure they thought dead in the lake. The deck
was shadowy; they had not yet seen her clearly. Then they raced for their rifles, standing at the
railing. As they turned back to her, rifles in hand, she coolly shot them. One, two, three, and they hit
the deck almost together. The fat bandit chief bounded onto the deck. With him was the bandit with
the skull mark who had mistreated her brother. Both had guns. These men had slaughtered a dozen
men, women, and children in the caravan, she remembered. As they raised their guns to fire, she shot
the skull-marked bandit between the eyes. A second shot, less lethal, dropped the bandit chief to the
deck. It has been said that "the female of the species is more deadly than the male." Julie was proving
it. At her direction, the dazed young missionary picked up a rifle and pointed it at the half-dozen
remaining bandits who were in a confused clump near the stern.

"If anyone moves, shoot them in the head," she commanded.

"In the head?" said the young missionary in a weak voice.

"In the head!" she cried.

The bandits, dazed by the appearance of the man they thought dead, now stared through the
semidarkness.

"It's a woman!" one of them shouted.

"A woman?" yelled another, and he rushed forward with a knife toward the slight, shapely masked
figure. Julie glanced quickly at the young missionary. He stood there with his rifle, motionless,
unused to this violence. Julie fired, dropping the knife-bearer to the deck.

There were shouts from the shore. The Jungle Patrol.

"Stay where you are," she yelled.

On shore the patrolmen looked at each other.

"Wasn't that a woman's voice?"


"Pick up those poles and push us to shore," Julie said to the remaining bandits. They did as she
ordered, using the twelve-foot poles to push the houseboat through the shallow water. As they neared
the shore, she turned to the missionary who was leaning against the cabin wall, weak from his ordeal.
"Are you strong enough to keep that rifle on them?" she asked. He nodded grimly.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend," she said and just as the boat touched the reeds, she leaped off. Patrolmen were waiting
nearby, and they rushed onto the deck with drawn guns.

"You! Stop," yelled one of them at the small figure moving among the reeds, "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

"No!" cried the missionary, "She saved me."

"She?" said the patrolman. But by this time, the figure was gone. Julie rode back to the Deep Woods.

Now that it was all over, she was shaken with fear and exhaustion.

When she reached the cave, her brother was still asleep. She went to her chamber and fell upon her
pile of furs, collapsing into a deep sleep.

"So it is written," said the Twentieth, closing the Chronicle as Kit and his mother listened attentively.

"That can't be all!" shouted Kit.

"Doesn't that sound like the end of a story?" said his father smiling.

"Don't be a tease," said Kit's mother. "You know there's more. What happened to Julie?"

"Yes, there's more. Shall we have supper first?" he said.

"No, now, now," said young Kit.

"Very well," said his father, opening the book. "'And as I slowly mended'" he read from the
Chronicle of the Seventeenth, "'my beloved sister Julie nursed and tended me, but she was strangely
silent and irritable, unlike her usual sunny self.'"

Her twin puzzled over her behavior but put it down as a reaction to the violence she had gone
through on the houseboat. As he regained his health and strength, she refused to hunt and ride with
him, but remained in the cave or took long walks in the woods alone.

"Julie, what is it?" he finally demanded.

"I'm tired of living this way. I want to wear real clothes again, and be a woman."

"Be a woman?" he said, mystified. "But you are a woman."

"You dunce," she snapped at him and strode away.

Her twin was no dunce and he knew his sister well. He remembered the years in Rome when she had
been courted by the most eligible bachelors there. And she had been interested in none of them. But
now she was obviously mooning over some man. Who could it be? Not much choice in the Deep

Woods. He ran after her, catching her at the Skull Throne.

"Julie, are you in love?"

Her eyes blazed at him and she turned away without replying.

"It's that young missionary, on the houseboat!" he shouted.

She sat on the dais and smiled hopelessly.

"Isn't it stupid?" she said. "After all the men we've known. I hardly talked to him. He was so
exhausted, he hardly knew I was there. Besides, I was masked, and wearing that ... that costume."

Her brother laughed.

"You were quite an eyeful in that. If he saw you, he hasn't forgotten," he said.

"Mind dropping the subject, for good?" said Julie, stalking away. Her brother watched her
thoughtfully, and, in the following days, made a few inquiries about the missionary who was now
safe in his new house in a seaside village. Then one day, he persuaded Julie to put on one of her
prettiest Roman dresses to take a trip into town. They rode through the woods, Julie riding sidesaddle,
wearing a modish evening gown. It amused her to put on this formal dress in the jungle. They soon
reached the seacoast, and rode on the uninhabited beaches toward a nearby fishing village.

"I thought you said we're going to town, to Mawitaan," she said, naming the sleepy little capital.

"No, this town," said her brother.

"You can't go into town like that," she said indicating his costume.

"I'm not," he said, stopping near a bungalow. "This is as far as we go. Wait here."

Puzzled, Julie watched her brother enter the bungalow, then come out on the veranda with a young
man. Startled, she recognized the missionary. She crept forward in the bushes near the veranda to
hear them.

"You are the masked man who came to the houseboat and tried to save me," said the missionary.

"But-they killed you."

"They tried," said t/z~' Seventeenth.

"But later, who was the girl . . ."

"My sister, Julie," said her brother.

"Julie! What a beautiful name! I've been thinking about her, wondering what her name was, hoping
to see her."

"Well, she's in love with you and wants to see you too," said the Seventeenth, pleased at the way
things were going.


In the bushes, Julie gasped. Then she turned and ran for her horse. The men saw her going.

"Julie," shouted her brother.

But she was on her horse and gone.

"What happened to her?" said her brother, amazed.

"Maybe she's shy," said the young missionary, being just as stupid about women as the Seventeenth.

"I'll go after her and find out," said her brother.

"May I go with you?" asked the young missionary.

As they rode along, he talked about Julie. The slim masked figure had filled his mind all day and his
dreams all night.

"I haven't been able to do my work properly. I've lost my appetite. I don't know what's wrong with
me."

The Seventeenth looked at the missionary carefully. He was a fine strong young man, intelligent and
earnest, but as innocent of the world and its ways as a baby. After all the brilliant suitors in Rome,
what did she see in this fellow? The ways of women were mysterious.

"Tell it to Julie," was all he said.

Down the beach, Julie was walking, leading her horse.

"Wait here," said the Seventeenth. He rode to her.

"Julie why did you? . . ." he started to ask her.

She turned on him in a fury.

"How dare you tell that stranger I love him? Of all the stupid asinine things to say. . ."

"Julie," said the Seventeenth calmly, "you wanted him. I got him for you. Why all the fuss?"

She looked at her twin and smiled, in spite of her anger. "All men are fools," she said.

"Agreed," said her brother. "And here comes one."

And he rode off slowly as the young missionary approached Julie, and dismounted.

"Miss Julie . . . I feel that we know each other ... I can't tell you how I've longed to find you ... I've
thought about you... to thank you. . ."

He stared at her, this radiant blushing girl in her stylish gown. Was this the beautiful masked figure
who had struck the bandits like an avenging angel? It was.

Kit and his mother waited almost breathlessly as his father closed the Chronicles. "Now it is time for
dinner," he announced.


Kit yowled.

"What happened?" he shouted.

"Oh they married, and had six children, and that was the end of the female Phantom," he said,
bending down to kiss his wife.

"How sweet," she said. "Boys or girls?"

"An even mixture I believe," said the Twentieth.

Along with the tales of olden times, Kit continued to learn the secrets by which the Phantom lives
and dies. Most important of all was the Oath of the Skull, made by the First over four hundred years
ago, an oath sworn on the skull of his father's pirate murderer: "I swear to devote my life to the
destruction of piracy, cruelty and injustice, and my sons and their sons will follow me."

Kit memorized the oath, repeating it to himself endlessly. So this is what the Phantom does! This is
what his father has been doing on his mysterious missions. Fighting piracy, in all its many forms on
land and sea; fighting cruelty and injustice.

He learned that, for ages, the Phantom had been the Keeper of the Peace in this jungle. He was an
arbitrator of disputes between tribes, helping to settle disagreements on land, hunting and water
rights, trying to halt battles when tempers flared. And though nothing is perfect and though some
hostile tribes and renegades roamed the vast jungle, there was a relative state of peace and safety.
Safer perhaps than many large cities. It is said-thanks to the Phantom peace-that a beautiful woman
wearing rich jewels could walk through the jungle at midnight without fear. This is an exaggeration
of course. There are always a few criminals at large, and predatory animals are not aware of the
Phantom peace. But all the folk recognized that the jungle was a better place because the Phantom
was there. They liked him and trusted him. The fact that most of them thought he was four hundred
years old and immortal only added to the sense of security. He had always been there. He would
always be there.

The Jungle Patrol was part of this peace-keeping. The patrol was limited to the jungle borders and
the no-man's- land between the small countries along a thousand mile border. This was an elite corps.

Thousands of young men of all races from all over the world applied each year. After rigorous tests,
only ten were accepted annually. There was great pride among the corpsmen. They boasted that one
patrolman could handle ten criminals. The patrol was organized with a full chain of command, from
private to colonel. Above that, there was a mystery. The commander. No one in the patrol, including
the colonel, knew who he was. His orders were received mysteriously. Some guessed the commander
might not be only one man, but many. All that anyone knew was that the patrol was two centuries
old, and it had always been that way. Its actual origins had been forgotten. None knew that the Sixth
Phantom had formed the first patrol with Redbeard and his pirate band. But the Phantoms, while
watching and guiding the patrol, had always remained anonymous. Kit was amazed to learn that his
father was the unknown commander, and that someday this would be his duty among all the others.
He was excited by all this and also somewhat awed and frightened by what he must become. He
dismissed the thought. It was a long way off. He was only eleven going on twelve.

His father explained the name "The Ghost Who Walks," which he was sometimes called. Ages ago,
the legend began that the Phantom was the Man Who Could Not Die. This happened because
generation after generation of Phantoms looked alike in their costumes and were thought to be
always the same man. Often, the Phantom was reported fatally wounded or dead. Yet months or
years later, what appeared to be the same man would appear unhurt, young, and vigorous. So the

legend grew.

Then, the matter of the rings. Kit had always noticed the heavy rings on his father's hands. They are
curious rings; one bears a skull, a death's head. This is worn on the right hand. When the hard right
fist of the Phantom strikes the jaw of an evil-doer, the mark in the ring is left on his jaw. And the
mark cannot be removed. The other ring, on the left hand ("closer to the heart"), is a symbol of the
Phantom's protection. The one who receives it is under the protection of the Phantom. This mark is
rarely given: to an individual who has saved the Phantom's life, or in special cases like Dr. Axel's
jungle hospital.

These rings have been handed down from father to son. Someday, Kit would inherit them. He was
also told that the Phantom is always masked; that his face is never to be seen by anyone save his wife
and children. Because of this strict tradition, another legend has sprung up; "he who looks upon the
face of the Phantom will die ... horribly." The Phantom has done nothing to discourage this legend. It
helps his mystery and his work by creating fear in his opponents. For the Phantom works alone, and
Kit began to see him as a mysterious figure moving in darkness, battling immense odds of evil-doing
and criminality. To be effective, to survive, and to win, the Phantom needed immense strength,
dedication, and all the help that the legend could give him. For these reasons, Kit had been carefully
schooled and trained thus far in his young life. At eleven going on twelve, he was an expert in all the
arts of self-defense and the handling of weapons. Exercise and training from the day he could walk
had developed him physically far beyond his years.

Kit had seen the Golden Beach, the Whispering Grove and the Isle of Eden. He knew about the
Phantom Hide-outs elsewhere; the castle ruins in the Old World; the high flat-topped mesa called
"Walker's Table" (after "The Ghost Who Walks") in the New World Desert.

Thus Kit was taught the secrets, traditions and duties which he would inherit one day. So many
secrets, so many things to learn and remember. His young head ached. But there was one thing he
was not told about. A chain on the Skull Throne. It was about three feet long, made of heavy iron
links, and was hanging down from one corner of the back of the throne, behind a stone skull. This
was not attached, merely hung there, and once Kit started to pull it away. Guran stopped him and
told him sharply to leave it alone.

"Why?" asked Kit.

"Because your father wishes it to be left alone," said Guran.

"Why?"

"Ask your father."

"Do you know, Guran?"

"Yes."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Ask your father."

Kit did ask his father as they ate that night, sitting on the ground near the Skull Throne.

"Why is that chain hanging there?"


"Because I put it there," said his father.

"Why did you put it there? Why won't Guran tell me?"

The Twentieth looked at his wife and they smiled.

"Your father put it there to remind him of something when he loses his temper," said beautiful
mother. She got up and went to her husband and kissed him, then sat next to him.

"That chain was very important to us, Kit," she said softly.

"What is it supposed to remind you of, and why won't Guran or anyone tell me what it is?"
demanded Kit, irritated by the mystery.

"Because it might be helpful to you to hear it a little later. Perhaps Guran will find some opportunity
to tell it to you in America," said his father glancing at beautiful mother, who suddenly looked wide-
eyed and anxious.

Kit forgot the chain.

"America?" he said. "Me?"

His mother came to him and held him.

"Yes, dear," she said.

It was in this way, as he neared his twelfth birthday, that he was told about the big change coming
into his life. Shortly he would leave the Deep Woods, leave the jungle, and go to America for his
education!

CHAPTER 6
GOING AWAY

For many years, Kit had been told that one day he would visit his aunt and uncle in America. It was
vague and meant nothing to him. But now, it was startling news. Go? When? In a month. Why? For
proper education. Why can't I stay here and study with you, mother? Because I've taught you all I
can. You need proper education. Why America? Because your aunt, my sister, is there.

The different generations of the Phantom had found their wives in many countries. Some were from
northern and western Europe; some from Middle Eastern and Mediterranean countries; some from
the continents of Asia and Africa, some from the Americas, north and south, some from the islands
of the oceans. And traditionally, the male child was sent to the nation of his mother for higher
education, if such existed there, or to the nearest nation that supplied it. Kit's mother had been raised
in America, her sister now lived there in a small Midwestern town, and that is where he would go to
continue his education.

Kit was an even-tempered boy, but for a time he brooded and sulked. What was America? A strange,
frightening place. He didn't want to go. He considered running away and talked over the plan with
Guran. Guran discouraged the idea. He couldn't run far in this jungle with headhunters and cannibals
out there. Besides, no matter where he went, his father would find him quickly. There was one happy
note. Guran was to go with him. Guran was now a full-grown man of twenty-two, a sinewy strong

pygmy, a half-foot shorter than the twelve-year-old Kit.

There were many instructions for Kit, about traveling, about the people he was to live with, and
about his behavior away from home. There was the matter of city clothes, and-worst of all-shoes.
Neither Guran nor Kit had ever worn foot covering of any kind. After a brief trial, Guran flatly
refused to wear shoes, but accepted simple sandals. Trousers and shirts annoyed him, but he
pretended to accept them, vowing to shed them at the first opportunity. Kit was less fortunate. He
had to learn to wear shoes, and they were sheer torture for him. The clothes were less annoying,
though he had expected to wear a skintight suit and mask like his father. He learned that men in
America did not dress that way.

Finally, the day came. The entire pygmy Bandar was on hand to watch the departure of Kit and
Guran, son of the chief. Kit raced through the Cave, having a hurried last look at the crypt, the
Chronicles, the costumes, the treasure rooms. Then he held back his tears as he kissed his beautiful
mother and father good-bye at the entrance of the Cave. He carried a small duffel bag holding his
few needs. He would get what he needed in America. His clothes for the voyage-and his shoes-were
also in the duffel bag. Guran carried only a slim sheath made of hide, containing his bow, arrows,
and lance. He and Kit would make the trip through the jungle in their customary loincloths. Kit's
father handed him a small leather sack to put in his duffel.

"These are funds for your upkeep and education. Give it to your uncle when you get there," he said.
Beautiful mother stood in the shadow of the Cave. She could not hold back her tears.

"Good-bye darling," she whispered, kissing him again. That was his memory of her, trying to smile,
standing in the Cave entrance with his father towering beside her. He would never see her again.
Accompanied by a dozen pygmies, they all started away at a slow jog, and, without looking back,
passed through the roaring waterfall to leave the Deep Woods. His father's words, his last words
remained clearly in his mind for years to come. "Remember all we've taught you, Kit. We love you
and are proud of you. Write to us. Remember us."

Remember? How could he forget them, the Cave, the animals, the Golden Beach, the Isle of Eden,
and the jungle?

A half day from the Deep Woods, in thick jungle, a party of one-hundred Wambesi warriors awaited
them by prearrangement. They did not know who the boy was, only that word had come from the
Skull Cave asking for the escort. The Wambesi joined the party, but kept clear of the tight escort of
the pygmy Bandar. Like all jungle folk, they respected and feared the small poison people. Further
on, another group waited, one hundred Llongo warriors. They too joined the procession. As the long
column passed through the jungle trails, more tribes sent their warriors. By the time the procession
reached the sleepy seaport capital, it was a thousand strong-warriors from the central jungle, bright in
their feathers, ornaments and ceremonial paints. Bells jangled at their ankles, their laughter and
delighted shouts sounding like an approaching storm. Few of them had ever been out of the jungle
and they were amazed by the sights of civilization. For their part, the natives of civilization were
equally amazed, and terrified as well. The column looked like an invading army. Alarmed phone
calls poured into the Jungle Patrol headquarters. But the Jungle Patrol had been alerted. Two of their
vehicles headed the column, guiding it to the wharves. At the head of the column strode Kit and
Guran.

Kit had paused at the edge of the town and donned his clothes and shoes, and bravely tried to conceal
a limp as the crowds on the sidewalk stared at him. Guran was wearing his sandals, but he refused to
go any further. The pygmies were the great revelation. No one in the town had ever seen one of the
pygmy Bandar, but everyone had heard about them, and their deadly weapons. Apprehensive glances
were cast at the quiver of arrows on each small shoulder and at the short lance each carried. The

town was buzzing with this event. Why were they here? Who was the boy?

A large tourist ship stood at the wharf. Hundreds of passengers lined the rails to look at the colorful
parade. Some thought it had been staged for their benefit. But when Kit stepped to the gangplank and
waved his hand in farewell, a wild roar came from the thousand jungle throats. And townspeople and
tourists alike wondered who this boy might be. A prince? Son of a king? Or of a president? Who was
to tell them this was the twenty-first generation of the Phantom? Not Kit. Not Guran, who smiled
somewhat fearfully at his side. This was Kit "Walker" (for the Ghost who Walks), off to America, to
go to school.

They stood at the railing and looked out to the small town and the forest and mountains behind. The
jungle escort was filing away from the docks, headed for home. The roar of the ship's whistle
momentarily panicked the warriors before they realized what it was. Then shrieking, and with much
laughter, they raced out of the town. Kit and Guran watched them as the big ship moved slowly into
the bay. They avoided looking at each other, for both had tears in their eyes. Good-bye Bangalla.

CHAPTER 7
THE OCEAN VOYAGE

The first few days at sea, Kit could not persuade Guran to leave their cabin. The Bandar are shy little
people, unused to outsiders, suspicious of strangers, and content only in their quiet shadowy jungle.
It had taken a good deal of courage for Guran to leave the Deep Woods. Only his love and loyalty to
Kit and his father had enabled him to do it. The curiosity of the normal-sized warriors of the
Wambesi and Liongo, to whom a pygmy was a rarity, was bad enough. Stares and comments of the
townspeople whom he had passed in the seaport town had been worse. But there, at least, he could
keep moving. Now, he was trapped on shipboard among hundreds of strange white people. So he
remained in the cabin where Kit joined him for meals and sleep.

Kit had no such inhibitions. He explored all the decks, from engine room to bridge, and chatted
briefly with all who talked to him. It was natural that passengers and crew were curious about him.
He had arrived at the docks with an escort of a thousand jungle warriors, and with a personal
bodyguard, a muscular little man who, everyone was informed, was a genuine wild pygmy. Kit and
Guran were the main conversation piece during the entire voyage. The name "Kit Walker" told little.
The purser spread the news that the palatial cabin the boy traveled in had been purchased with a large
diamond. After an appraisal of the gem, the ticket office had to get a bank loan to make change for
the difference between the diamond's value and the ticket price. Kit was obviously the scion of some
potentate or unknown millionaire. But who? Passengers on the decks plied him with questions as he
strolled by.

He was polite, answered briefly, but gave no specific information about himself. His mother had
warned him about talking to strangers, but he was also curious about these strangers, and had more
questions than answers. Two things about the boy amazed them. First, his age. It was hard to believe
he was only twelve. Not only was he far taller and heavier than was average for his age, but his
manner was grave and mature beyond his years. So he appeared to them. Inside, he was bubbling
with excitement about this new world. The other thing about him that amazed the passengers was his
facility with languages. There were many nationalities aboard, and he seemed to speak easily with all
of them, going from language to language without a second thought.

Kit reported to Guran about the ship and his various conversations as they ate together in the cabin.
The little man's curiosity finally overcame his shyness. But there was the problem of dress. He'd
discarded the outfit he'd been given during the hot jungle trek, and retained only his loincloth and
sandals. Kit gave him a shirt to wear, which covered Guran to his knees like a nightgown. But it was

comfortable and he was pleased with it.

The two hit the decks like a minor stampede. First they terrified passengers reclining in steam chairs
on deck by racing along on top of the ship's railing. There was a sheer drop of sixty feet to the rolling
ocean below. Passengers hurriedly called for a steward to stop this suicidal-as it seemed to them-play.
Before he could reach them, they had climbed up the iron ladder on the ship's giant smokestack and
hung by one hand, fifty feet above the deck, shouting and laughing.

The entire passenger list and crew were on deck staring up as the astonished captain called to them
through a megaphone, ordering them down. They returned, slowly, casually, Kit moving headfirst
down the iron ladder. By the time they reached the deck, the captain was red in the face, and a lady
passenger needed smelling salts.

"You could have killed yourselves," the captain roared.

"How?" asked Kit, because he wanted to know.

"How?" roared the captain. "You could have fallen into the sea, or fallen to the deck, and broken
your necks."

Kit translated for Guran, and they smiled at each other.

"There was no danger of that, sir," said Kit politely.

The captain calmed down. There was something about the boy's quiet voice and steady gray eyes that
inspired confidence. He made them promise not to repeat those antics. Kit translated and they both
nodded agreement. Kit liked the big captain. The authority in his voice and the kindness in his face
reminded him of his father.

The next trial was the first time they entered the ship's dining salon. The head steward attempted to
keep Guran out and send him to the servant's dining room. Kit refused this, explaining that Guran
must remain with him. The head steward was firm. Rules were rules, and he knew a "native" when
he saw one. Kit hesitated. His father and mother had both told him he must respect the laws and rules
wherever he went. But he did not like this rule. 'Did that make it wrong?' he wondered. He saw the
captain watching from a nearby table and went to him. He explained to the captain that no one else
on the ship could understand Guran's language and that he must remain with Kit. Also, he was too
shy to be without Kit. And also, he was not a servant. The captain consulted the passenger list. Kit's
cabin had been reserved for two occupants, Kit Walker and Prince Guran. That settled it. A prince
was welcome in the first-class dining salon. The passengers smiled at Guran in his knee-length shirt,
and Guran smiled shyly back at them as he joined Kit at the table.

But several passengers did not smile. They didn't wish to dine in the same room with a "native" and
loudly informed the captain of this. Kit sat quietly, listening to their loud voices. Guran understood
none of it. But their friend the captain remained firm, and the passengers marched out vowing to
report this outrage to the home offices. Kit puzzled over this incident. He knew things would be
different in this new world. But his parents had failed to tell him about bigotry, possibly because they
were unaware of it themselves.

Kit ordered their dinner. He didn't realize one chose between the main courses such as roast beef,
chicken, and duck, and to the waiter's amazement, he ordered them all. All eyes in the salon were on
them as they began to eat from their loaded table, this unusual boy and his strange companion. But
eyes soon turned away in disgust. Though Kit had had some elementary training in the use of knife
and fork in the Deep Woods, it was not the customary way to eat. "Fingers were invented before

knives and forks," his father used to say, and though beautiful mother was dainty about her table
manners, Kit naturally took after his father. And Guran had never seen a fork before. The sight of
them drinking soup from a bowl held to their lips, with their bare hands, was more than their closest
table neighbors could stand. These-two thin old ladies-paused to complain to the captain and then
rushed out. The captain studied the situation and then invited Kit and Guran to join him at his table.
Slowly and patiently he suggested the use of knives and forks. Flushing, Kit recalled his mother's
lessons, and hurriedly translated for Guran. Guran was delighted with the utensils, holding them in
his fists like hunting knives. The captain, who was an amiable man, found this amusing, and refused
to correct Guran.

Not everyone found it amusing. The chief steward for one. He was outraged that the "native" had
been allowed in his dining room, irritated by the animal feeding habits of the two, and furious that
they had the captain's favor. For many reasons-probably dating back to faulty toilet training-the chief
steward was a mean man. Others of the crew had learned to fear his quick temper and his hard fists.
He liked to fight. The more he thought about this arrogant boy who had come to the wharf with a
thousand "natives" and pranced about as though he were a prince who owned the ship, the angrier he
got. The captain had countermanded his own rules, and humiliated him in front of all the stewards
and passengers. So he brooded over a bottle of brandy in his own cabin. He came out, eyes bloodshot,
looking for the boy. He found him with Guran at the stern of the ship on the second deck, watching
the ship's wake. They turned as he approached. Jungle trained, they both recognized menace in his
manner, and watched him carefully. He glared at Kit, and swore at him, a string of nasty, violent
swearwords. Kit knew none of the words, so they meant nothing to him. He stood quietly, which
enraged the chief steward even more. "Is that your brother? Got to eat with your brother?" he said to
Kit. Kit was surprised. It was obvious to anyone that Guran was not his brother. He smiled, puzzled,
and shook his head. The chief steward was getting no normal response here. He lashed out with his
open hand, hitting Kit hard on the cheek.

"Little punk, you afraid to fight?" he shouted. Two crewmen, at the railing in the background, heard
this, and started toward them. Guran also moved toward the chief steward but Kit held his arm.
"I do not wish to fight you," said Kit quietly. "But I am not afraid." The steward had worked himself
into a rage. The top of Guran's head barely reached the steward's chest. But the angry man lashed at
him with his big fist, knocking him against the railing. Kit's reaction was almost instantaneous, "like
a jungle cat" one of the crew reported later. He leaped at the steward. A quick karate chop dropped
the big man to the deck, and Kit was upon him, his strong hands at the steward's throat. The
steward's anger suddenly drained, replaced by fear. For the face above him was deadly and grim, and
the hands were choking the life out of him. He struggled and tried to roll over, but he was helpless.
The two crewmen reached them, and tried to pull Kit off the man. They couldn't move him. The
steward's eyes were popping, his face was red as Kit pounded his head against the deck. The cries of
the crewmen brought others, and it took a half dozen of them to drag the boy from the steward. "Like
holding a wild cat," they said. They fell to their knees and swayed with the struggling boy. Guran
darted among them and whispered to Kit. He relaxed. The steward lay curled on the deck,
whimpering, blood on his face. "Another minute and the kid woulda killed him," they reported later
on.

Kit stood relaxed, calm now.

"I am sorry," he said. "He hit Guran. He had no right. I lost my temper. That is bad."

"You might have killed him," said a crewman, kneeling by the whimpering steward.

"Of course," said Kit quietly.


They all stared at him.

"You wanted to kill him?"

"No," said Kit. "But when one fights, one fights to kill. Or one does not fight."

Examination revealed that the steward had no bones broken. The captain received the full story from
the crewmen who saw it all, and he placed the steward in the brig. Then he brooded about his strange
passenger, Kit Walker. Word of the battle spread rapidly among the passengers and the crew. A few
of the men tried to congratulate him, but they were worried and a little fearful of this pleasant young
boy. He had beaten a grown man and, it was said, almost killed him. Would have if half the crew
hadn't dragged him off. When -he and Guran walked on the deck, or entered the dining salon, they
were watched in silence. The captain brought Kit and Guran to his cabin.

"I know the man started the fight and got what he deserved, but I'm told you tried to kill him. Could
you, with your bare hands?" asked the captain.

"Perhaps," said Kit.

"Would you?"

"Not now. It is over," said Kit. -

"Would you then, if they hadn't stopped you?" persisted the captain.

"Yes," said Kit. "When a man fights with you, he tries to kill you. You must kill him to save your
life."

The captain considered the serious boy and the grave face of Guran who listened without
understanding a word.

He realized, without exactly knowing why or where, that these two were from another world, the
jungle.

"In our world, Kit," he said, "men sometimes fight in anger to settle an argument or a grudge. It is a
stupid way to settle anything, but they sometimes do. And usually it is enough to beat the other man,
to win, to settle the argument. But not to kill. Do you understand?"

"I hear you," said Kit. It would take time for him to understand.

CHAPTER 8
AUNT BESSIE AND UNCLE EPHRAIM

Mr. and Mrs. Ephraim Carruthers traveled a thousand miles from their home in Clarksville, Missouri
on the banks of the Mississippi River to the port of New York to meet their nephew Kit from the
exotic land of Bangalla. A few of their friends from Clarksville were also in New York at the time on
business trips, and joined them at the wharf. Bessie Carruthers, though stout, had some of the beauty
of her younger sister, Kit's mother. Bessie was a fluttering, talkative warmhearted person, president
of the Clarksville Garden Club and active in local literary circles. Her husband, Ephraim was a
successful businessman with a lumberyard.


As they awaited the arrival of the ship, Bessie was a bit vague about Kit and his parents, because she
really didn't know much about them. The father was a rich planter, she believed, and young Kit was
arriving with his personal valet. This impressed their friends. No one had a personal valet in
Clarksville.

As the ship passed the Statue of Liberty, Kit and Guran were crowded at the railings with the other
passengers. The boys mistook the statue for a religious idol, and Guran thought the skyline of
skyscrapers was a mountain range. When they reached the docks, Guran dashed back to their cabin,
and was reluctant to leave. He had seen the crowds of people waiting, and seen how they dressed. He
was ashamed to go ashore wearing only Kit's shirt over his loincloth. But Kit was impatient to go
ashore.

"It's hot out there," he said. "All you need is the loincloth." They had arrived during one of
Manhattan's summer hot spells. Guran refused. He wanted a jacket and trousers like Kit's. This was a
dilemma, since Kit had only one suit. He solved it impatiently by giving the suit to Guran. It was
several sizes too large for the pygmy, but Guran looked at himself proudly in the mirror, obviously
delighted. A steward knocked on the door. He announced that they had been cleared through customs
and he would take them to a party waiting for them ashore. Grabbing Guran's hand, Kit dashed
excitedly onto the deck. The steward stared at the odd pair, but he had learned not to question the
unusual boy.

And while awaiting Kit, Aunt Bessie had become more eloquent about her nephew's family, to
impress her neighbors from Clarksville. "The father-his name is Walker- owns thousands of acres out
there. In the highest society world travelers, a dozen servants, entertain crowned heads of Europe and
on and on. The friends were impressed and waited expectantly. The steward came to the group.

"Mrs. Carruthers? Your nephew is coming now."

Kit and Guran raced down the gangplank. Hundreds of heads turned to look at them in amazement.

Kit, lean and bronzed from the sun, wearing only a loincloth. Little Guran, an oversize suit hanging
on him like a sack, the sleeves falling far below his hands, the trousers covering his feet. The
Carruthers party stared. Was this the wealthy nephew and his personal valet? Aunt Bessie was
speechless. But their meeting was interrupted by a small truck that rumbled across the dock toward
them, blowing its horn. Instantly, both Kit and Guran raced up a nearby telephone pole. Neither had
ever seen an automobile or heard an auto horn. Their instant reaction, learned in the jungle and done
almost without thinking, was the same given to any large land animal that suddenly rushed out of the
bush. Climb a tree, fast. You don't stop to investigate whether it's a rhino, hippo, elephant or water
buffalo charging at you. Move-climb a tree-then investigate.

The crowd on the dock, not knowing why, cheered, and laughed. The friends from Clarksville looked
at each other, mystified. Aunt Bessie was stunned. But Uncle Ephraim, a hardheaded practical man,
was neither mystified nor stunned. "A savage," he muttered. "Is this what your sister sent us?" Aunt
Bessie glared at him. Her mind cleared. If Ephraim disapproved of anything, that meant she was for
it. She strode determinedly to the telephone post, her big flower hat bobbing on her head, and looked
up.

"Come down. That truck won't hurt you. I am your Aunt Bessie." Kit flushed. After the first moment
up the pole, he had known what it was from his schoolbooks. An auto. He dropped twenty feet to the
dock, landing on all fours like a cat. The watching crowd gasped. Kit looked at the uncertain, smiling
face before him, and he saw something of his mother there. He embraced her.


"Hello, Aunt Bessie. I am Kit." A figure plopped to the dock next to him. "And this is Guran. He's
my friend."

CHAPTER 9
THE NEW HOME

The Carruthers home was a large white frame house surrounded by a green lawn, flower bushes, big
trees and a white picket fence. It was on a shaded quiet street with other houses with lawns and
picket fences. The Carruthers were not wealthy, but they were what is known as "comfortable," and
they moved in the leading society of Clarksville, Missouri, a city of 50,000 people sprawled on the
banks of the wide lazy brown Mississippi River.

Kit had a large airy room on the second floor. The Carruthers had a small room for Guran in the
basement next to the furnace. Kit insisted firmly that Guran share his room on the second floor,
annoying Uncle Ephraim. To keep the peace, Aunt Bessie prevailed, and Guran moved in with Kit. It
was difficult enough for the Carruthers to adjust to their unusual nephew. As for Guran-he would
have been a rarity in any town or village in Bangalla-but in the Carruthers' white-frame house, he
was a phenomenon: a wild pygmy from the Deep Woods, an expert in the preparation and use of
deadly poisons, who spoke only his own language which sounded like grunts and coughs to the
people of Clarksville.

Though Guran had learned to read and write with Kit in the Deep Woods during those classes with
beautiful mother, he had little practice in conversation and was too shy to try. Then there was the
matter of the beds. A second cot was put in Kit's room, and Aunt Bessie was surprised and pleased to
find them made up each morning after Kit left for school. After a few days, she was amazed to learn
that they didn't use the beds. They put extra blankets on the floor and slept on them.
"Why on the floor, for heaven's sake?" she asked.

Kit explained that Guran was used to sleeping on a straw mat on the ground, and that in the Skull
Cave he slept on an animal skin on the rock floor. He had always done this, and found beds with
mattresses too soft and uncomfortable. Uncle Ephraim found this outrageous. "Sleep on the floor?"
he said. "They're animals. They should sleep in the stable." But then, almost everything about Kit
irritated Uncle Ephraim. As for Guran, he refused to discuss "the little savage" or to have him at their
dinner table. So Kit also refused to eat dinner with his Aunt and Uncle, and ate in the kitchen with
Guran.

It was a difficult time for everyone in the Carruthers house, and Kit wondered about his parents'
wisdom in sending him there. He knew the Carruthers were good people, but their way of life was so
different from the Deep Woods. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, things would get better.
Aunt Bessie had bought a modest wardrobe for both Kit and Guran in New York, accompanied by
Uncle Ephraim who protested every purchase as being "too high." Uncle Ephraim was prudent about
money. Some called him tight. But Kit still found city clothes uncomfortable, and shorts and a T-
shirt were as far as he would go, while Guran followed suit.

They had reached Clarksville at the end of the summer, in time for the new school term. Though all
of the town had heard about the new arrivals, the Carruthers did not introduce them or take them to
such places as their church or country club. This was due to Kit's insistence that Guran accompany
him everywhere, and no one of Guran's color had ever entered either the church or the country club.
So Kit was denied the blessings of the church and the pleasures of the country club, for the time
being. Kit, for all his surface calm, was nervous and uncertain. This was all new and he was only
twelve. Guran had been his companion since he could crawl. He had a protective feeling about this
shy little man, who was completely lost in this strange world. The Carruthers had reserved a place

for Kit in a local private boys' school, Clark Academy. This was a day school, where Kit would
attend classes and return home each day to eat and sleep. Guran went with him the first few days
until they had surveyed the place, then both agreed it was best for Guran to wait at home.

Clark Academy covered the primary and secondary school years. He was put through a series of tests
to determine his grade, and was placed with other boys of his own age. Thanks to his mother's
instructions, he was well-prepared in the academic subjects. His knowledge of languages amazed
teachers and students alike.

Some of his other knowledge amazed them as well. History, for example. During his first week of
the seventh grade history class, conducted by Mr. Hackley, Clark's football coach, the subject of
Alexander the Great came up for discussion.

"What can anyone tell us about Alexander?" he asked.

A bright boy wearing glasses raised his hand.

"Sir, he conquered the whole world. And he cried because there were no more worlds to conquer," he
said.

"Correct. Anyone else?" asked Mr. Hackley. At Clark, the boys were required to address all their
teachers as 'sir.' Kit raised his hand, memories of lessons in the Skull Cave coming back to him. The
class looked curiously at the new boy. This was the first time he had spoken.

"Alexander was not Great. He was a gang lord and he led his mobsters to kill and loot weaker
people."

Mr. Hackley and the boys stared at him. Then the boys looked at Mr. Hackley who grinned.
"What an amazing interpretation. Where did you hear that?" he said. "And don't forget your 'sir.'"

"My father told me."

"Sir," said Mr. Hackley.

"Sir," said Kit.

Mr. Hackley laughed, and the boys joined him.

"What else did your father tell you," said Hackley.

"He said . . ."


"Sir, he said that Alexander the Great was the same as Attila the Hun, only it depended on who wrote
about them."

"Attila the Hun," roared Mr. Hackley with great relish. "Oh, that's marvelous. And where did your
father learn all these original facts?"

All the boys were grinning and snickering. It was like the time he had been in the woods with a few
pygmy boys, and had by mistake picked a bouquet of leaves for his mother that were poisonous and

caused a severe rash. He flushed, and faced the sarcastic faces.

"He said it because he knows what is true, and he does not lie," he said firmly.


"Sir," said Kit.

The boys waited expectantly for more funny comments from Mr. Hackley. But he was a kindly man,
not given to baiting his pupils, and he saw that the new boy was tense. He explained that there were
many versions of history, and that some might agree with Kit's father, but that in this class he would
attempt to teach the more orthodox versions. Kit remained on his feet during this. Something was
bothering him.

"Mr. Hackley . . ." he began.


"Are you a knight? Is that why they call you sir?"

"A knight?" said Mr. Hackley.

"Like the Knights of the Round Table?"

The roar of laughter was interrupted by the bell, ending the class. The boys fled out, still laughing.
Knights of the Round Table! Word about it got around, and it was a joke among the faculty and
students for some time. That new boy was an odd one.

Kit was not the first foreign student to enter Clark. There had been a few others from Mexico,
Canada, South America, and an occasional European boy. But word of his exotic background and
behavior had spread. Where was Bangalla? And the sight of Guran added to the boys' interest. Kit
was bigger and heavier than most of the boys in his group, but he was a boy, after all, and he had to
go through the usual schoolyard trials. This school had its bully, a hulking lad in an upper grade who
delighted in roughing up the younger boys. Jackson-that was his name-was also the football team's
fullback, wrestling star, and weight lifter. Jackson went after Kit the first day Guran stayed at home.
He backed him into a corner of the yard and sneered in his face.

"Afraid to come to school all by your itsy-bitsy self without your black boy?" he said.

The boys crowded around, waiting for Kit to get it, a ritual many of them had gone through with
Jackson.

"He's not a boy. He's a man," said Kit evenly. He recognized the menace here. Jackson reminded him
of the chief steward on the ship.

"What are you stupid, some kind of half-breed from the Congo?" continued Jackson, also using four-
letter swear words which were meaningless to Kit.

"Are you attempting to provoke a fight?" said Kit. Jackson was a bit taller than Kit, and twenty-five
pounds heavier. He shouted at Kit's formal English.

"Pro-voke a fight? How can I, with a yellow-bellied coward from the Congo?" Jackson announced to
the watching crowd. "Does this pro-yoke you?" he went on, shoving Kit hard so that he fell back

against the wall. Kit was like an animal at bay. He looked around at the watching circle of faces.
Some were grinning, some were sympathetic. Jackson's face was mean, like a hyena.

"Or this?" continued Jackson, shoving him again so that he fell to one knee.

Kit came out of the crouch like a tiger. His fist cracked into Jackson's stomach, doubling him over.
An immediate blow on Jackson's jaw straightened him up, and another blow knocked him to the
ground. Blubbering, Jackson struggled to his feet. But Kit was after him like an angry hornet,
chopping him down with a karate blow, then another fist hard in the face. The circle of boys stood
gaping arid shocked by this ferocious attack. This was not schoolyard fighting. Jackson's jaw was
swollen and his nose was bleeding. He was crying incoherently now, but Kit was not finished with
him. He grasped the crying boy with both hands and lifted him above his own head. Holding him in
the air, he marched the short distance to the six-foot iron picket fence and carefully hung Jackson
there by his coat collar, so that his feet dangled, not touching the ground. Then he turned to the
watching crowd in a slight crouch, his fists poised, his eyes narrow. The crowd hesitated. A few
started to cheer, then stopped. None of them liked Jackson. But these were gently reared boys and the
violence of Kit's attack had frightened them. A few lifted Jackson from the fence and took him to the
infirmary.

The school's headmaster had been watching from a window. Jackson's bullying was well-known. The
headmaster went to the infirmary to make certain the boy's injuries were not serious. There was the
matter of the swollen jaw. That would require a little time to heal.

As for Kit, he became a hero to his seventh grade class, many of whom had been through Jackson's
torments. Boys in the upper school heard about this phenomenal new boy who beat the tar out of
Jackson, then lifted him over his head like a feather and hung him on the fence! But this hero-
worship and admiration was from a distance. The new boy was too different. To these small town
middle-class boys, he seemed dangerous, like some kind of exotic jungle beast that could be admired
only when it was safely behind bars. Kit was shy in this new world, and the boys misunderstood this,
thinking he was unfriendly. Kit sat alone in the cafeteria during the lunch hour and pretended to read
a book while he ate. And during recess time in the schoolyard, while the others played and laughed
and talked, he sat in a corner and pretended to read his books. He was lonely and as his classmates
chased each other and shouted about him, he dreamed of the Deep Woods.

Kit was called into the head's office for a brief talk concerning fighting. The headmaster was
sympathetic, but firm. Kit nodded.

"I behaved properly. I did not try to kill him," said Kit. He looked at Kit for a moment. The boy's
manner was honest and sincere.

"That will be all," said the headmaster, and Kit returned to his class. The headmaster looked out of
the window for a long time. What kind of boy was this?

In the weeks that followed, he didn't find out much more. The boy was quiet, and worked hard at his
studies. He talked little about himself, and never answered questions about his homeland. He refused
efforts of the athletic coaches to coax him onto their school teams and never remained after school to
chat in the yard or join the gang at the nearby ice cream parlor. He always rushed home, where
Guran was patiently waiting, sitting on the floor of their room like a stone idol.

Clarksville had a small zoo, and Kit and Guran discovered it with shouts of glee. It was one of the
few places in the town they liked. The zoo had a few animals from their jungle: two lions, a leopard,
a black panther, chimpanzees, two zebras, and monkeys. They greeted them happily, like old friends,
and almost climbed into the cages to embrace them. As it was, the keepers were constantly yelling at

them to stay away from the bars. This was not necessary since both Kit and Guran knew their
animals better than the keepers. But the keepers couldn't be expected to know that. The boys were
fascinated with animals that were new to them, such as the grizzly bear. This huge animal- they
understood-was more than a match for the biggest jungle cat. They were amazed at the size of its
claws and fangs, and delighted when it reared up on its hind legs. Also, the mountain wolves were
new to them. Though there were wolves in distant parts of Bangalla, neither had seen one, and Kit
was struck by their pale blue eyes and stealth. "They're wild things impossible to tame," a keeper told
them. Impossible? thought Kit. He doubted that, remembering the animal-training at Eden. "I'd like
to try someday," he told Guran. They sat for hours watching the sleek black panther. Like all of its
species, this was a restless, suspicious animal, constantly on the prowl in its cage, stalking every
passerby, its yellow eyes glittering.

"Look at those eyes. Crazy," said the keeper. "He's a killer. Loves to kill. Never turn your back on
him." The boys knew he was right about this cat, and it would turn out to be unfortunate that the
keeper didn't remember his own advice.

One other thing about Clarksville fascinated Kit and Guran. The Mississippi River. It was over a
mile wide here, and the boys spent hours on the banks among the willows and reeds watching the
long barges move slowly past. One of the first books Kit read at the Carruthers' house was Mark
Twain's Huckleberry Finn. Guran could read English and they read the century-old adventures of
Huck and Tom Sawyer with great delight. They immediately made exciting plans to build a raft and
float down the big river, as Huck had done. They never got around to doing this, but they spent many
hours at the river. Now and then they took a forbidden swim-forbidden by Aunt Bessie-far out into
the channel. Once or twice they swam out to the vast barges that moved freight up and down the
river. Naked, they would climb aboard to examine the cargo of coal, chemicals, grain, fertilizer, or
crates, until an angry man would yell at them, and sometimes chase them. Laughing they would dive
back into the muddy water and wave at the irate man. Several afternoons they would lie on a grassy
bank drying after a swim while Kit read aloud from another Twain book, Life on the Mississippi.
The life on the river of those times fascinated them, and they waited for hours to see one of the great
riverboats with the side paddle wheel. But they saw none. Aunt Bessie explained that the days of the
great riverboats were over, and outside of a few excursion boats near the big cities they had almost
all disappeared.

The zoo and the river were fun, but Kit remained unhappy in Clarksville. Aunt Bessie was warm and
sweet, but Uncle Ephraim was still unfriendly and hard, constantly making snide remarks about Kit's
background. Over the weeks, he had told them a little about the Deep Woods and the Skull Cave.
Bessie was shocked that her sister actually lived in a cave, surrounded by savages like Guran.
Shocked and disappointed, her vision of the rich planter brother-in-law vanishing. And what sort of
man was he? Kit refused to talk about hi~ father to them. How could they understand the Ghost Who
Walks, the Twentieth Phantom?

Ephraim was more than disappointed. He was angered by the savage, sitting on the floor upstairs,
and by this strange nephew who spoke to him only in monosyllables. Jackson's father-the local
banker-had a few words with Ephraim about the fight, which made matters worse. More than that,
Ephraim complained bitterly about the cost of his boarder.

"Private academy, clothes, and food, not only for him but for that black savage. Does your precious
sister living in a cave expect me to support them?"

Kit didn't hear this, but his Uncle's surly manner toward him was obvious. School wasn't much better.
Since his fight, the boys kept their distance, still afraid of this strange boy, so that he made no close
friends. Also, Guran was restless, and longed to leave, though he had promised to stay at least a

month. One night Kit decided to run away.

"Where to?" Guran wanted to know.

"To the Deep Woods," said Kit.

Guran spoke of the long sea voyage. How would they get back? As they came, was Kit's answer.
There were other boats.

"Your father and mother will not like it," said Guran.

"They will, when I tell them about Uncle Ephraim." Guran understood that. Though he had not one
word of conversation, he understood Ephraim. Still, he tried to persuade Kit to remain. His
instructions from the Skull Throne had been to bring Kit to this house, and he knew the Twentieth
would not approve of his son running away. He told this to Kit.

"Your father has often said, when you are in a time when life conspires to defeat you, you must not
run from it or bow to it, but fight to conquer it." Kit nodded. He had heard the same advice from the
same lips but he was not to be put off. Uncle Ephraim and Clark Academy were more than he could
stand, and he was determined to leave. Seeing he could not change the boy's decision-and in that he
recognized the iron will of the father-Guran agreed to go along. He had no choice. Otherwise Kit
would go alone.

They left that very night. They took nothing but Kit's duffel bag, Guran's slim package wrapped in
hide and containing his weapons, salt, and matches. They slipped out of the second-story window
and dropped quietly onto the lawn below while Bessie and Ephraim slept. Kit left a brief note:

Dear Aunt Bessie,

Thank you for your kindness. I must go home now. Good-bye.

Kit.

They found the note on Kit's pillow the next morning. Bessie was hysterical and even Ephraim was
alarmed. Kit's home was six thousand miles away, across the ocean. He was twelve. It was insane.
They notified the police. The search was on. Road blocks were set up; the police stopped passing
cars, notified airports and train stations, and sent out circulars. They had a dock photo of Kit and
Guran. Newspapers and local television and radio stations carried the news for a few days, but Kit
and Guran had disappeared.

There was a large tract of forest near Clarksville and they had instantly headed into it. Police
followed part way with bloodhounds. Kit and Guran watched the sniffing dogs with some
amusement from the top of high trees. Then they descended, walking through streams again to cover
their tracks. They knew how to throw off trackers. You had to know in the jungle, when the cats
stalked you.

The two were happily at home in the forest. It was not the same as their jungle, but they found nuts
and berries and some roots to eat. They also found chicken yards at the edge of the woods and raided
them at night for an occasional fowl. Illegal, of course, but neither knew about that. They found
rabbit tracks in the woods, and set up snares on the trails, and were soon roasting rabbit over a
campfire. They were perfectly happy, and had discarded all shoes, clothing, and sandals, wearing
only their loincloths. Plans for finding the Deep Woods were vague. It was over that way,

somewhere toward the rising sun.

Their plans were vague and their progress lazy because Guran arranged it that way. He didn't want
Kit to get too far from Clarksville. Using the sun and stars to guide them, Guran kept moving them
around in a giant circle, returning after a few days to a pool near the edge of the forest. Kit looked at
it suspiciously.

"We were here before," he said.

"Were we?" said Guran innocently.

"You know it, Guran," Kit replied angrily. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Why would I do it on purpose?"

"To keep me from going away."

"I cannot lie. It is true, Kit."

"And we have gone for days in a circle?"

"That is also true."

"We will go no longer in a circle. We will go east to the rising sun and the Deep Woods."

"Your father will be angry."

"My mother will be glad."

"She will be glad at first and then angry."

"Guran, if you will not go with me, I will go on from here alone."

"And why would I stay in this strange country without you?"

"Then you will go, with no more tricks?"

They had swam and played in the pool, and now they were lying on a grassy bank drying in the sun.

"I will go with you, Kit," said Guran. "Perhaps the time has come to tell you of the chain."

Kit did not understand.

"What chain?"

"The chain of your father that hangs on the side of his Skull Throne."

Now Kit remembered his questions about that length of chain and his parents' mystifying refusal to
tell him about it.

What had his mother said? "Your father put it there to remind him of something when he loses his
temper." And she had also said, "That chain was very important to us."


His father had said: "It might be helpful to you to hear it a little later." He remembered it all clearly
because that was the moment he learned he was to go to America.

"Tell me, Guran, and then we will go east with no more delay," said Kit, lying back on the grassy
bank and chewing on white grass roots.

"This happened before you were born, when I was a small boy," said Guran. "But I heard the tale
many times from the Teller of Tales and once from your father's own lips."

"Then tell it," said Kit, impatient to be on his way. And wise little Guran told him.

THE CHAIN

The story begins on an ocean liner bringing Kit's mother across the ocean to marry his father. She
was young, blonde and beautiful, and the center of all eyes as she strolled on the deck or entered the
dining salon. All the unattached males on the ship, from the captain down, were attracted to the
lovely girl.

The other females watched jealously. She did nothing to encourage all this attention, for the poor girl
only wanted to be left alone to think about her amazing fianc, the masked man who was waiting for
her at the outskirts of Mawitaan.

One man in particular never stopped watching her. He was a gentleman of obvious importance,
traveling incognito with a dozen servants. He had the most sumptuous cabin on the ship and gave
large sums of money to the ship's orchestra, waiters, stewards, and barmen. It was rumored that he
was a prince of some far-off place, and the rumor was true. He was a tall swarthy man with a face
like a hawk, and the cold eyes of a serpent. Or so it seemed to the girl, for those cold eyes were
always watching. After a few days at sea, the circle of men about her thinned out. Gossips said that
servants of the mystery man had passed among the passengers and crew and advised them to leave
the lady alone. The gossips added that when one passenger-a burly blond Swede-refused, he was
badly beaten and landed in the ship's infirmary. The story could not be confirmed, because this
passenger was not seen for the remainder of the voyage. As it turned out, he was not in the infirmary
either. He was nowhere on the ship, and the mystery of his disappearance was never solved. The
ocean is a big place and rarely reveals such secrets.

Thus, the lovely blonde lady had some peace and was grateful for it. This did not last long. The circle
of admirers was replaced by the mysterious man with the eyes of a serpent. She refused his invitation
to sit at his table for dinner, but he was not put off. He followed her relentlessly every time she left
her cabin, courting her on the decks, up and down the stairs, in the salons, bars, and card rooms, until
she was completely exhausted and angered, and remained in her cabin. It must be said that his
proposals were honorable. He had fallen madly in love with the blonde beauty. He finally came to
her cabin one night, and his proud hawk face trembled as he asked her to marry him. She kept him in
the corridor and spoke through the partially opened door. She told him she was in love, about to be
married, and that was that. And would he please oblige her and let her alone. He was insulted and
became angry. He began to shout at her, so that other passengers opened their doors. Still, he ranted
and screamed at her, pounding on her closed door. A steward came and asked him to leave. He threw
the man on the floor. The steward returned with the captain and a few husky sailors. The angry man
faced them like a cornered tiger. Then finding he was helpless, he agreed to leave. But, as he turned
away, he shouted through the door to the trembling girl that she had not seen the last of him.
Thereafter, the captain himself escorted the girl from her cabin for each meal, and back again when
she was ready to retire. But it was not necessary, for the angry man remained in his own cabin the
remainder of the voyage.


The ship reached Mawitaan, the seaport of Bangalla, late at night, and passengers were permitted to
sleep aboard until the following day. She went ashore with an escort consisting of all the ship's
officers, but the precaution was unnecessary. The mysterious man and his party had left the ship
during the night. There was an escort waiting for her, two men from the Jungle Patrol who had
received instructions to meet this lady and take her to a crossroads where the main path into the
jungle began. As long as anyone knew, it had been called the Phantom trail, but not many knew why.
Kit's father-to-be-the Twentieth-waited there for his lady. He waited impatiently and anxiously, for
he had not seen his loved one for a year. Back in the Deep Woods, great preparations for the
wedding were under way, and all the chiefs and leaders of the jungle would attend. The drums had
been beating out the news for weeks: The Phantom will take a bride, and there would be week-long
celebrations in all the tribal villages for those who did not attend the wedding. Astride Thunder, on a
hilltop overlooking the bay, he had seen the ship anchor far below. Now he waited at the arranged
meeting place, and became more impatient as the hours passed. His impatience gave way to dismay.
Maybe she had changed her mind and was not coming. What else could it be? Finally night came. He
had waited since dawn. Unhappy and disappointed beyond belief, he started back to the Deep Woods.
He rode back to the hilltop and saw that the big ocean liner had departed. Had she gone with it, or
had she not come at all?

But news travels fast in the jungle and he hadn't gotten far when the tom-toms began to beat. There
had been an ambush at the edge of the jungle. Two Jungle Patrolmen had been badly wounded, and
the lady with them had been carried off. No one knew by whom.

His disappointment turned to fury. He raced back to the main road and climbed the first telephone
pole he found. It was now past midnight. Using lineman's equipment he always carried, he cut into
the line and woke up the colonel of the patrol, a young officer named Weeks.

Weeks was startled by the deep angry voice of his unknown commander. He told all he knew about
the ambush. Both patrolmen were in critical condition. One had been able to say only that the
attackers were strangers from a foreign place, that their faces had been covered with scarves and that
they had attacked with scimitars. As far as they knew, the lady had not been harmed. There were no
clues.

The Phantom was beside himself with fear for the missing girl. He roared through the countryside on
Thunder, stopping at every hut, demanding of every farmer and herdsman if they had seen any signs
of the abductors. No one had seen anything. It was as though the earth had swallowed them up.
Wretched and tormented, he returned to the Deep Woods. All the jungle knew of the tragic
happening. The celebration was canceled. In the Deep Woods, the pygmies watched their big friend
unhappily as he brooded day after day in his cave. He could not be consoled. What was there to say?
Where was she?

The Misty Mountains lie to the east of the jungle. Here is the domain of the mountain princes, a rich
feudal aristocracy whose minds and hearts were in the fifteenth century. In these modern times, they
lived as absolute rulers in their tiny kingdoms with the power of life and death over their subjects.
They were a law unto themselves and usually intermarried. Only on occasion did they bring in a
bride from the unpleasant outer world. One who tried to do this was Prince Hakon.

Hakon was the richest and most tyrannical of the mountain lords, he of the hawk like face and cold
eyes like a serpent. It was Hakon who had fallen in love at first sight with the beautiful blonde girl on
the boat, had pursued her, and vowed never to lose her. His men had ambushed the patrolmen and
borne her off in a waiting plane. Despite his liking for feudal customs, Hakon enjoyed modern
comforts as well.


The girl was brought before him, in the cold thin air of his mountain palace. It was only then that her
silk blind-fold was removed. The poor girl had been terrified by the ambush and the subsequent
rough flight, and her heart sank when she saw Hakon.

"I have not brought you here to harm you but to honor you by making you my princess," he said. His
voice was warm but his touch was as cold as his pale eyes as he took her hand. She pulled away
angrily and threatened him with the law. This amused Hakon who was the law, in this land.

"I will give you time to adjust to this place, and to me," he said confidently, as if that settled the
matter. She was borne off by several husky guards, shouting and fighting in a most unladylike
manner, for she was not one to weep and faint. Like a princess in a storybook, she was locked in a
high tower, and when the sun rose over the mountains she could see the distant jungle, and she knew
her love was there.

Day after day, Hakon came to see her, and day after day, she refused him, telling him each time that
she loved another man. After a time this angered him, and he said she was lying, that there was no
other man, that she could love no other man once she had seen Hakon. Despite her predicament, she
laughed at that, which infuriated the arrogant mountain prince. He demanded to know who her love
was, and she told him, proudly and happily. The name she used was merely . . . Phantom.

This caused Hakon to consider. As had all the mountain lords, he had heard of the Phantom all of his
life, but had assumed he was not a real man but a jungle superstition. Could there be such a person?
He would find out. He was anxious to know the truth. If such a person existed, he wanted to bring
him to the palace where he could deal with him.

How could he find the man? He asked the girl.

"You don't find him. He finds you," she replied, delighted to speak of her love. He saw the pride in
her voice and was determined to find this man wherever he was, and destroy that love. Through his
emissaries, he sent word to the tribes that the missing girl of the ambush was a guest in his castle and
would soon be his bride. It was his hope that the news would somehow reach her mysterious lover. It
did reach him, in the Deep Woods. With a roar he leaped upon Thunder and raced through the
waterfall, headed for the Misty Mountains and the palace of Prince Hakon. His bride indeed!
(At this point, Guran stopped his tale. "Have you heard enough, or do you want to move on?" he said
slyly. "No," shouted Kit, fascinated with this story about his parents, "Go on ... when does the chain
come in?" "Soon," said Guran as he continued.)

The Twentieth knew Hakon by hearsay, a cruel tyrant by all accounts. The word he had received
infuriated him, and puzzled him as well. A guest at the castle . .. about to be his bride? Could she be
there of her own free will? Had she fallen in love with her captor? Or had the ambush been
prearranged by both of them on the boat? For he learned Hakon had been a passenger, and these
questions plagued him as he raced up the Misty Mountain trail on Thunder's powerful back.

The palace gates were open when he reached them He did not stop, but rode past the guards, up the
broad steps, in through the large open doors. Then across the marble foyer, and up the wide curving
marble staircase into the great throne room where Hakon waited on a small golden throne, He was
startled by the sight of this big masked man on the huge black stallion, prancing on his parquet floors.
The Twentieth had his pistol in hand. And he fired into the glittering crystal chandelier above.

"Where is she?" he roared. In his anger, he had thrown all caution to the winds.

"Up there," said Hakon pointing to the ceiling, and snapping his fingers at the same time. At this
signal, guards from both sides fired. Several bullets struck the masked man and he felt off Thunder

onto the polished floor.

He lay in a small cell for a month while his wounds healed. The guards had been careful not to kill
him, and a doctor cared for him. Hakon didn't want him to die. He had other plans for this lady's
masked lover.

When he was well again, he was brought into the courtyard. There was a millstone there, used to
grind grain. Two oxen were attached to a long shaft and moved about in a circle, thus turning the
heavy millstone and grinding the grain. The oxen were taken away, and the Twentieth was chained in
their place. "Move," commanded a guard, flicking a whip at him. He stood still, staring up at the
tower. In the high barred window, he saw her for the first time. And she saw him, and cried to him.
He struggled with his chains, but they held. He was helpless. The guard flicked the whip again,
striking him across the shoulders. He refused to move.

Hakon was watching from a balcony.

"No food or water, until he works," he called, and went back into the palace.

For several days, the masked man refused to work, hut soon thirst, then hunger, forced him to work.

Round and round he went, pushing the heavy creaking millstone. The girl watched from the tower.

Her tears could not help him, but they did not help Hakon either. He had thought the humiliation of
her lover would end her love for him. Such is the thinking of a man like Hakon. It only hardened her
further against Hakon, if that were possible.

Now the days turned into weeks. From dawn to dusk, he laboriously pushed the heavy millstone. If
he faltered, he was whipped. At night, a dozen guards took him-still chained-a gun at his head, from
the millstone to the cell where he slept on the rocky floor. At dawn, back to the millstone. Now the
people of the town came up to mock the captive. These mountain people had heard tales of the
ancient jungle legend called Phantom, and now they laughed at him, and threw rocks and filth at him.
He endured it silently. And Hakon, still rejected and frustrated, enjoyed every moment of it,
News got down to the lowlands and into the jungle. The Phantom was Hakon's captive, and worked
as a beast of burden! All the tribes got this news, including the Bandar, and the pygmy poison people
resolved to go to the aid of their friend. Word of this came to him as he worked at the millstone. A
Wambesi warrior had braved these heights to bring him hope and encouragement that help was on its
way. But the Twentieth sent back an order with the warrior, forbidding the Bandar to come. He knew
that even with their poison arrows, the little people would be slaughtered by the guns of Hakon if
they attempted to scale this peak. And so he persisted, and the guards and the people mocked him
and tormented him; Hakon laughed, and the girl wept. But he persisted.

(By this time, young Kit was listening with tears in his eyes, his face flushed, fists clenched. "How
awful," he moaned. "How awful. Oh, what did he do?" Guran went on with his story.)

He persisted. He had noticed something that no one else saw. Each time he made the slow and
laborious circuit, pushing the shaft that turned the heavy millstone, a link of his chain scraped on the
stone ledge. Each turn, the stone cut ever so slightly into the heavy link. It was hard, back-breaking
work, for he was doing the work of two oxen. But he didn't weaken. He did not answer the taunts of
the crowd. He ignored the whips of the guards. Sometimes, Hakon would bring his dinner guests to
watch the jungle beast at work. The princes from the neighboring peaks were delighted with this
unusual and singular entertainment, and congratulated their host on his originality. And as though he
had become a dumb beast, he continued to work, round and round, and each time the link was worn a
bit thinner.

Months passed, almost a year of this torment. The girl in the tower had lost all track of time. Several
times, she had refused to eat, going on a hunger strike to protest this cruel treatment of her lover.
Word of this had reached the "dumb beast" below, and he sent back word to the tower, asking her to
eat, to keep up her strength and her health. And round and round he went, using all his mighty
strength to push the terrible weight.

Then one day, it happened. Hakon was nearby with a small party of lords and ladies. They had just
come in from a hunt, and were examining the "jungle beast" at work before having their lunch. The
guards stood at attention in the background. It happened faster than anyone could see, for the link
was now worn almost entirely through. One moment, the "jungle beast" was at work, then he raised
up, tearing the long shaft from the chain, and swinging chain and shaft as he moved. The fearful
weapon mowed down a dozen guests like bowling pins, among them Hakon. But the "beast" was
upon him, his powerful hands around Hakon's elegant throat. The cold serpent eyes popped.

"Tell your men to drop their guns. Bring her down here at once," the masked man commanded.
Hakon croaked out the order. By this time, his own gun was at his head. The girl-scarcely believing
what was happening-was brought to the masked man. Without stopping to greet her, he told her to
mount one of the hunting party's horses at the side. Then he commanded that his stallion Thunder be
brought to him. Hakon was cursing furiously flow, until a sharp cuff on his ears stopped him.
Thunder was brought out, rearing and prancing until he saw his master.

The Twentieth mounted him, raising Hakon along with him, in front of the saddle. Hakon's gun was
still pressed against the back of his own head, and the prince's lace was a ghastly white.

"Stop him," he screeched like a wounded bird.

"If anyone moves, you are a dead man. You understand?"

Hakon understood, as did all the watching court.

At the masked man's order, a guard brought him the broken chain. It was the guard who had whipped
him unmercifully for months. The masked man swung the chain, and the guard fell to the ground.
Then the two horses sped out of the courtyard, down the mountain slope, bearing the girl, the prince,
and the Phantom of the jungle. And the dazed court stared at the broken shaft and remaining chains
and their bewilderment grew. How could any man, however strong, break that heavy chain? Had this
indeed been the immortal man about whom their jungle-bred nurses had sung to them since infancy?
Word had raced ahead of their return. The air throbbed with the heat of tom-toms and the jungle
roared its welcome. There was an enormous wedding. All the chiefs and leaders came to the Deep
Woods. And the celebrations were held in each village for those who could not attend. Twenty chiefs
escorted Prince Hakon to the headquarters of the Jungle Patrol in Mawitaan. And the zealous
patrolmen saw to it that the man who had so cruelly ambushed two of their members was brought to
a speedy trial, And all his wealth and alt the power and pressure of the mountain princes could not
reduce his thirty-year jail term. Later on the prince was killed by a fellow prisoner in a sordid brawl.
The Twentieth never forgot his chain. From the day of the wedding on, it hung from the edge of his
Skull Throne.

"For me," he once explained "it represents patience, the will to persist, to do what must be done
despite the odds. Never in my life was I in a lower or more desperate state. Yet the slow grinding of
that chain gave me hope, the will to go on."

That was the end of the story. Kit was lying on his back, looking silently at the clouds far above.
Then Guran removed something from his pouch.


"Your father said that if I ever told you the story, I was to give you this."

It was a link of the chain that hung at the throne. It was the link that had been worn down and broken.
Kit held it, and stared at it for a long time,

"I now know why you told me that story, Guran. You think I should stay and do what I am supposed
to do ever though I hate it."

Guran nodded. "Even though you hate it, but you know it is the thing that should be done. Patience,
persistence, the word; your father used with the chain."

Kit sighed deeply. "Yes," he said, "I will go back."

The sun was now low in the sky. They had long since dried in the sun. They heard a little voice.

"You're the boy they're looking for," said the voice. They peered through the grass. It was a little girl,
about eight year~ old, in a little white dress, wearing a big red ribbon in her long dark hair. She had
wide gray eyes, and the face of an angel. And she lisped.

"I saw your picture in the paper, with him," she said pointing to Guran. "My mommy said you ran
away from borne."

They hurriedly adjusted their loincloths and walked over to her.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"Oh no. My house is right over there. I know your Aunt Bessie," she lisped because of missing front
teeth. "And she is crying because you ran away."

"What is your name?" asked Kit.

"Diana. Diana Palmer."

A fortune-teller might have told Kit that this little girl was to be the love of his life. But there was no
fortune-teller there.

"Aunt Bessie is crying?"

"You're a bad boy and you should not run away. You should go home," said the child firmly.
Kit was disturbed. He had not realized Aunt Bessie loved him like that. His mother would also cry if
he ran away from home.

"You know, Guran, she's right," he said.

"It is for the best," said Guran nodding.

"He talks funny," said Diana.

"Come, we'll take you home," said Kit, taking her little hand.

They returned as unexpectedly as they had disappeared. Aunt Bessie covered the embarrassed Kit
with kisses. Even Uncle Ephraim was relieved, though he remained gruff. He'd felt guilty about the

boys' departure.

But he also felt that the runaway should not go unpunished. He demanded the boy be sent to him in
the cellar despite Aunt Bessie's tearful protests. Still wearing only a loincloth, Kit arrived with Guran
behind him. Uncle Ephraim was standing near the washtub. He had taken off his heavy leather belt,
and held it doubled up in his hands.

"You almost broke your aunt's heart," he said sternly. "You must be punished. Bend over that table."

Kit stood silently, and did not move.

"Did you hear me?" roared Ephraim.

"I heard you," said Kit quietly. "You have no right to beat me, and I shall not let you do it."

Ephraim shook with anger at this defiance. He was a big burly man, a former lumberjack, and used
to rough tactics. He started toward Kit, then stopped. He was bigger and heavier but there was
something about this grim young face that gave him a sudden chill. Behind, in the shadows, little
Guran stood like a carved idol. Without knowing why, Ephraim was suddenly afraid. He wanted to
get out of that cellar fast, and he did. He went to the stairs and spoke without turning back.

"I'll talk to you another time," he said.

Aunt Bessie was listening at the hall door as be came out.

"You didn't hurt him?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"No, I changed my mind," said Ephraim.

"I'm so glad," said Aunt Bessie happily. "That was a sweet and fine thing to do."

Kit went back to his routine. In his heart he knew that is what his father would expect him to do. It
was not quite the same now, at school. Boys understand what running away means. He'd been
unhappy, this stern classmate. They were more friendly and sympathetic. But Ephraim remained
grouchy. One thing continued to disturb him.

"How could your sister send that boy here with no money?" he demanded again one night. "That 'rich
planter,' living in a cave, did he expect me to pay for a private school education, and feed both of
them? They eat like elephants!"

Kit overheard this, and he remembered something. He had forgotten to give them the little sack. He
took it to his aunt and uncle as they sat at the dinner table and explained.

"My father doesn't keep money, but he gave me this to give to you, to pay for my education and
upkeep," said Kit. Ephraim stared at the shining jewels, white, green, red, and blue.

"What am I supposed to do with these? Are they glass?" he asked suspiciously.

"They don't look like glass," said Aunt Bessie, "but they make such clever imitations now. Are they
glass, Kit?"

"I don't know," said Kit.


Ephraim and Bessie and Kit took the sack to a jeweler- friend in the town. The man spent a long time
examining them with a magnifying glass.

"Will those pay for the boy's schooling?" asked Ephraim, expecting his friend to laugh at him.

"Where did you get these, Ephraim?" said the jeweler.

"Never mind where. I didn't steal them. Will they pay for his schooling, is all I care."

"I think you might buy a small school with them, Ephraim," said the jeweler.

When Ephraim realized the value of the gems, he turned white, then asked Kit, "Where did your
father get these?"

Kit shrugged. "He has a whole roomful of them," he said.

"A whole roomful?" said Ephraim weakly.

Now Uncle Ephraim treated Kit well. He was pleasant, he even brought him a glass of milk to his
room at bedtime. Also one for Guran.

At home and school, life became good for Kit and he was happier. Guran, the wise little man,
watched and knew all was well. He could make a good report to the Deep Woods. He then
announced to Kit that he was leaving, that the time was up. Kit was not happy about this, but he
knew it must be. Guran was miserable in this strange land, and was anxious to return to his people.
Before leaving the second-floor room for the last time, he tried to give Kit a farewell gift, his most
prized possession, his weapons. These were the small bow and stone-tipped arrows and the short
lance that he had brought from the Deep Woods, wrapped in hide. Kit was touched, but refused. He
knew the little man would need them as soon as he entered the jungle. It was a long trek from the sea
to the Deep Woods, and he would be in constant danger from animals, and possibly from men if he
were unarmed. But with his weapons in his hands no human being would come near him. Ordinarily
they would run at the sight of him. So Kit refused and Guran understood and was not offended.

They took him to the airport. By now, he had learned to wear ordinary clothing, but his small figure
still attracted attention. Since he spoke no languages that were known in this world, he carried
written instructions and wore printed tags that showed his destinations.

Kit shook hands with him, something they had both learned in Clarksville, and Guran was gone.
Gone with him was Kit's last link with the jungle and the world of his childhood. Now, for a long
time, his life would be here.

CHAPTER 10
THE SCHOOLBOY WONDER

With Guran no longer waiting at the house for him, Kit began to remain at the academy after school
hours to watch the teams practicing. The track and football teams were on the playing fields outside.
Boxing, wrestling, and fencing teams worked out in the gym. He watched them all, comparing their
techniques with those he'd learned in the Deep Woods.

But he did not participate in anything, still uncertain about his acceptance by his classmates. One
afternoon, he was fascinated to see an archery lesson in progress on the school lawn. It was a class of
seniors, run by Mr. Hobbes, Kit's English literature teacher who was also the school's track coach.
Mr. Hobbes was an archery enthusiast, and during summer vacations went into the north woods or

the Western mountain country to hunt with bow and arrow.

Kit sat on the grass and watched. He was surprised by the size of the long bows and the straight
steel-tipped arrows. Quite different from the crude pygmy weapons he had grown up with. He was
amused by the awkwardness of the big boys, and by their lack of skill. But he hid his amusement
behind an impassive expression. Mr. Hobbes, in his demonstration, was not bad at it, Kit decided,
though he wouldn't last long in the jungle. Too slow and inaccurate. That night, Kit thought about
those beautiful big bows and arrows and longed to try one. The next afternoon, he returned to watch
them again. Mr. Hobbes had noticed him and was pleased to see him. He was curious about this
somber boy from the jungle who rarely spoke in his class but learned quickly.

Near the end of the class, Mr. Hobbes called to Kit, asking him if he'd like to try. Kit hesitated. The
seniors, seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, looked at him with interest and no hostility. They'd heard
about this strange boy, but as upper classmen, had no contact with him. Kit's eagerness to hold the
bow overcame his shyness, and he grasped it with obvious delight. If only Guran could be here to see
this beautiful bow! It was twice as long as the bows he had used. It was strung tightly, but so were
the pygmy bows.

"Maybe that is too hard for you," said Mr. Hobbes. "I can adjust it to a lighter pull."

"No, it's okay," said Kit, using an expression he had heard in the schoolyard.

He flexed the bow several times, then examined the arrow, holding it horizontally extended from his
eye to observe its trueness. Beautiful. Mr. Hobbes watched him sharply. As an archer, he recognized
the experienced feel that Kit was showing. Then Kit threaded the arrow in the bow and took his
stance facing the target a hundred feet away.

"You can get closer if you want," suggested Mr. Hobbes.

"This is okay," said Kit.

He bent the bow in a wide arc, as far as it would bend. Mr. Hobbes and the seniors stared. They
knew the tough quality of this bow, and how hard it was to bend. This slim seventh grader was
stronger than he looked. Then Kit released the arrow. It hid the outer edge of the bull's-eye. All
applauded, but he turned in annoyance to Mr. Hobbes.

"May I try another?" he asked. "I'm not used to this bow."

Amazed, Mr. Hobbes handed him another arrow. Once more, the bow was bent into the wide arc.
Twang! Bull's-eye, dead center.

More applause.

"Fantastic!" said Mr. Hobbes. "Can you do that again?"

Kit nodded. He did it five more times. All bull's-eyes, the arrows bunched in a tight clump.

"That's the most perfect shooting I've ever seen," said Mr. Hobbes enthusiastically. "It's remarkable!"

"Not so remarkable," said Kit thoughtfully. "I've been using a bow ever since I learned to walk, since
I was two, or three."


They all sat on the grass.

"What did you shoot? Tell us about it," said Mr. Hobbes.

The biggest animal he'd ever killed was a wild boar that had charged out of the bushes at him one
day when he was hunting with Guran, he told them. But he had shot many smaller animals-for food,
he added quickly-he did not hunt for sport in the jungle. Mr. Hobbes and the boys were fascinated.
They wanted to hear more, but Kit had talked enough that day. He said he had to go home to do his
homework. "English lit.," he added, smiling at Mr. Hobbes.

That afternoon broke the ice for Kit. He had a few more sessions with the archery class. Word spread
about his ability and the student audience grew each day- among them, his classmates from the
seventh grade. They watched his amazing shooting and his easy camaraderie with the seniors and Mr.
Hobbes. Now, in the cafeteria and the schoolyard, Kit no longer sat alone. He was sought after by
many boys in other grades as well, and friendly rivalry developed as to who would sit with this
interesting boy.

Kit had flexed the bow, but he had not yet really flexed his muscles. That came one day when he
wandered into the playing field to watch the track and football teams at work. Mr. Hobbes, the coach,
was the first to get him involved. He invited him to join the runners in the sprints and the longer runs.
When Kit agreed, Mr. Hobbes told him he could find some track shoes or sneakers in the locker
room, as well as a track suit.

Kit removed only his jacket, shirt, socks and shoes, running barefoot on the cinder track. And he ran
like a deer that first day. Even the football players working in the center of the big field stopped to
watch him.

The milers were getting in shape that day, and Kit joined them, eight times around the big oval. The
coach timed them casually with a stopwatch. Time wasn't important yet. Training had just begun. But
when Kit lapped the others at the halfway mark and raced on, his long hair flying like a mane, other
runners and football players alike crowded around the track coach and his stopwatch. They began to
shout encouragement to Kit as he raced by. When he finished the laps and walked over to the group,
untired and breathing easily, they stared at him.

"This stopwatch must be broken," said Mr. Hobbes. Kit examined it with interest.

"You were timing me. If I had known that, I would have run faster."

Later the stopwatch was checked. It was not broken. It was accurate.

"It would appear," said the coach, his eyes bugging slightly, "that this schoolboy ran a second slower
than the world's record. And according to him, he wasn't even trying.

Such news gets around. A crowd was out to watch Kit run the next day. But he was watching javelin
practice. He asked if he might try. He knew about this. They gave him the javelin. With an easy
swing, he threw it into the stands, farther than anyone at Clark Academy had ever done. Then he
tried everything the team offered. Discus, high jump, broad jump, and sprints. He excelled in all the
events. Obviously, the new boy was a phenomenal athlete.

The football coach, Mr. Hackley, reached out for him. Kit was unfamiliar with the game, but after
watching a few scrimmages, joined in, again barefoot. Receiving the ball, he sped to the goalpost
without a hand touching him. On a second try, he drove right through the line, where an open hole
was supposed to be. But wasn't. That didn't stop him. He moved like a racing tank, bowling over

teammates and opponents alike and made another touchdown. He trotted over to the coach, smiling,
for he enjoyed this rough-and-tumble game.

"Was that all right?" he asked.

Mr. Hackley nodded blankly, his mouth hanging open in amazement. This boy wasn't real.

Kit remained with the football team, but also took time out for boxing and wrestling, two sports he
knew and enjoyed. No one at the school knew either judo or karate, so he taught them. His prowess
at sports increased ~his popularity with his classmates, and this acceptance made him happy and
lessened his loneliness. He hadn't forgotten the Deep Woods, and wrote to his parents every week.
He had not told them about running away. Why worry them, now that it was all over? He told them
about the fun he was having on the teams. His father's letter was to be expected: "Don't forget your
books." The letters from home, with the exotic stamps, intrigued Bessie and Ephraim, as well as the
boys at school, some of whom saved stamps. Kit didn't tell them the letters were written by torchlight
in a cave, and carried by fast relay runners to the seaport. That would be hard to believe. But Kit took
his father's advice, and worked as hard on his books as on his teams.

When the practice period was over, and the games and meets began, fame came quickly to Clark
Academy and their star athlete whom some dubbed, "The Schoolboy Wonder." He ran like a
whirlwind through the schoolboy teams, still barefoot. As the ground became harder and colder, Mr.
Hackley convinced him to wear shoes. Kit settled for sneakers. In the indoor track meets that winter,
he broke a dozen junior records in the sprints and longer runs, and in several field events such as
javelin, broad jump, pole vault, and discus. In boxing and wrestling, he was unbeaten in his division.
It is not too surprising that Kit excelled in these sports. From the moment of his first steps in the
Deep Woods, he had had rigorous daily physical training so that his body development and
coordination were superb. Boxing and wrestling were good for Kit. Here he learned to fight for sport
rather than for survival. It amused him when the school paper's sports column described him as
having a "killer instinct" in the ring. He no longer tried to kill, only to win, as the ship's captain had
advised so long ago.

One day in the late autumn, a terrible thing happened at the Clarksville zoo. The black panther had
turned on his keeper, badly mangling him, and had escaped from its cage. Kit remembered the
animal from his earlier visits to the zoo, the glittering yellow eyes, the restless beast prowling in its
cage, stalking everyone who passed by. And he recalled that the keeper's own words were, "Look at
those eyes! Crazy! He's a killer. Loves to kill. Never turn your back on him." Evidently, the keeper
had forgotten his own advice. He had turned his back momentarily while cleaning the cage and the
animal had leaped upon him. He had been taken to the hospital in critical condition, and the killer
was loose on the town.

The news created an instant furor in Clarksville. The schools were uncertain whether to keep the
children there or send them home. Most of them decided on the latter course and told their children
to rush straight home. The children didn't need to be told twice. Many of them had seen the black
panther in its cage, and there was no loitering that day or stopping at the corner candy store.

The police and firemen spread across the town, searching. The streets were empty as tradesmen shut
their shops and people in automobiles headed for their garages. Shotguns and rifles and handguns
were taken from closets as people anxiously watched their yards. It was a frightening thing to have
this creature loose in the town.

Several dogs in the park near the zoo were the first victims. They went after the big black cat,
perhaps not realizing it was different from the cats they usually chased. After all, it looked like a cat,
and smelled like one. Two were destroyed at once. A third managed to escape, badly mauled. Then

the black beast vanished into the thick bushes.

Police moving with the keepers carefully searched through the area. They carried heavy nets and
guns but the keeper's advice was to shoot on sight. It would be difficult to take this big cat alive.
Kit had been on the way to an archery class with Mr. Hobbes when the news came. Everyone in the
school was promptly dismissed and told to go home at once. Kit rushed off with the bow and a
quiver of steel-headed arrows over his shoulder. In the excitement, no one at the school noticed this.
Alone, he prowled the empty streets. Houses were shut tight and frightened faces peered through the
windows. An occasional adult or child dashed breathlessly to a house and hurried inside. A
policeman shouted at Kit to go home. He nodded and went on. He finally reached the park. All the
nursemaids and baby carriages had long since fled. Even the usual bums sunning on the benches
were gone. A few police and keepers moved in the distance, carefully combing the bushes.
Kit found the dead dogs that had been killed by the panther. The sight did not disturb him. He had
seen jungle kills before. He looked about quickly, trying to guess the direction the panther might
have gone. There were thick bushes on two sides. The police were moving through them. On a third
side, there was a low wall with bushes and a lawn beyond. This was a school for girls. He knelt near
the slain animals which were within a few yards of each other. There were tiny flecks of blood
among the pebbles, barely noticeable. He visualized the drops falling from the claws or fangs of the
panther as it raced away. Bending down close to the path, he followed the flecks. They led directly to
the wall. On the wall, he found a faint smear. The panther had leaped over the wall, lightly touching
it. He looked about for the keepers and police, but they had disappeared into the bushes.

He climbed over the wall, and carefully examined the ground beyond. It was lawn, worn away in
some places with patches of dirt or dust. It was not difficult for Kit to follow the panther's trail. Its
claws dug slightly into the grass and dirt as it sped over the open ground. The trail led over a hill
toward a clump of bushes and trees near a group of brick buildings. This was the girls' school, and as
he moved cautiously toward it, he was alarmed to see the big doors open and the young girls pour out.
This was one school that had not sent the children home at once, having decided they'd be safer there.
But so many phone calls came from anxious parents that they finally decided to send the girls out
with strict orders to go directly home.

Kit ran toward them. Some deep instinct coming out of his training told him he was near his prey. It
was an almost subconscious tightening of muscles, a sudden increase in alertness and a quickening of
breath and heartbeat as his adrenals pumped into his bloodstream. It was a familiar feeling, common
to hunters and hunted in the jungle.

There was a scream from the girls. Some of them were running under a huge oak tree. They were
looking up, screaming as they ran. Several fell down on the path. Above them on a big branch,
partially concealed by brown autumn leaves was the black panther. It was crouched, ready to leap.
Teachers and students on the steps, in the doorway, and at the windows, all screamed. Girls in their
uniforms of blue-black skirts and white shirts, ran in all directions, their braids flying. Books and
papers fell to the ground as they bumped into each other in their panic. Perhaps it is fair to say there
was only one cool head at that moment: the hunter's.

In a motion so fast it was almost a blur; Kit pulled an arrow from his quiver and threaded it into the
bow. Then the panther leaped, a bloodcurdling snarl coming from its open jaws.

The long bow was bent in a wide arc. Then ... twang! The steel-headed arrow met the panther in
midair striking it in the side. The beast crashed to the ground only a few feet from several fallen girls.
But it was not dead. It whirled, furious, on the ground, trying to grasp the arrow in its jaws. The
nearest girl on the ground started to crawl away frantically. During these split seconds, the panther
managed to get the arrow in its teeth and jerk it out. Then it crouched, panting from exertion,
dripping red foam from its jaws. The "crazy" yellow eyes darted from side to side as the girls

screamed and ran, and crawled in all directions. It was at its most dangerous now, a wounded animal
at bay. Not far from it, one young girl was having trouble moving away. She had twisted her ankle
and was crying and in pain as she tried to move on one foot, and knee, and hands. She could be the
first victim, and this beast could move among the children like a tornado, destroying a dozen in
moments. Now it made a tentative move toward the hobbling girl. She screamed in terror, but a
figure flashed between her and the panther. Again, the bow was in a wide arc. The crazy eyes
focused on the upright figure, the jaws widening, and with a bloodcurdling roar, it leaped at him.
Twang! The steel-headed shaft drove a foot into the beast's body, through the heart, cutting into the
spine. And the panther dropped like a rock, stone-dead.

For moments that seemed endless, the entire crowd of onlookers, girls and teachers, were silent,
frozen by the utter terror of the scene. It was during this silence that Kit picked up the girl, her little
body shaking with sobs.

"It's all right. Don't cry. He can't hurt you now," he said.

With the girl in his arms, he turned to the crowd. "He's dead," he said. There was an outcry of relief
from everyone. Some of the students wept, still terrified by the event. But girls and teachers alike
swarmed around Kit, carefully avoiding the beast on the path. Several women took the weeping girl
from his arms, and a fat woman with a big pile of white hair, silver pince-nez glasses, and an
enormous bosom, embraced him.

"Oh you wonderful boy, you wonderful boy," she said, laughing and sobbing. She was the
headmistress of the school. Other teachers crowded about him, patting him on the back, shaking or
kissing his hand. He endured it stoically, not trusting himself to speak yet. For tension and fear had
gripped him violently, and now that it was over, his body trembled. He hoped no one would notice.
The teachers called their students back into the building. There was no reason to go home now. The
headmistress asked him to come into her office for tea. He nodded and said he would join her in a
few moments. He walked over to the dead panther. A few of the school children and teachers
watched him from the steps and from the windows.

The beast was lying in a pool of its own blood, lips curled up over white fangs, the yellow eyes open,
no longer "crazy." This type of big cat was never friendly, he knew. But what had made it so
abnormally vicious? Suspicious, evasive, stalking.... Someone, a trapper, a dealer, or a keeper had
mistreated it badly when it was small, so much so that it feared all beings with the human scent. He
tugged at the arrow. It wouldn't come out. The first arrow, chewed in half, was still in its side. This
worried him. He had taken the equipment without permission. Would Mr. Hobbes be angry with him,
he wondered. He knew the archery sets were Hobbes's private property and did not belong to the
school. Oh well, he thought, as he walked away from the panther, arrows didn't cost too much. He
could replace them.

He refused the headmistress's offer of tea, but accepted a glass of milk. She then wanted him to come
to the auditorium where the student body and faculty were waiting to greet him. But he couldn't face
this, and excused himself, saying he had to get back to school. He walked between rows of admiring
teachers and students in the corridor, then ran down the stairs. A garbage truck was standing on the
path, and the men were lifting the panther.

"Wow, a heavy one. How much you figure?"

"Three hundred pounds anyhow," said the other one.

"Heard a kid shot him with that arrow."


"Wow."

They tossed the body on the truck. Kit trotted after the truck as far as the school gates. He felt
remorse for the animal lying on top of the garbage. It was an ignoble end for the powerful creature.
He ran all the way to the school, and went down to the locker rooms to return the bow. The school
was almost empty, having been dismissed-but a few were still there, among them Mr. Hobbes.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Hobbes, that I borrowed the bow. Two of the arrows are gone, but I'll
pay for new ones."

The news of Kit's feat bad already reached them. They stared at him.

"Two arrows ... gone?" Hobbes managed to stammer. "Gone?"

"I had to use them," he replied. "How much are they? I'll bring the money tomorrow."

Hobbes put his arms around Kit. "My boy," he said. "My boy, my boy." He was too moved to say
anything else.

When Kit reached home, there were neighbors, newsmen, cameras, and microphones on the porch.
Inside, the phone was ringing constantly and Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were bursting with
pride and excitement. They embraced the boy, as the newsmen and newscasters made a rush for him.
He answered their questions briefly, stood with his aunt and uncle for the cameras, then ran up to his
room where he fell upon his blankets on the floor, drained and exhausted. He fell asleep at once and
did not move for many hours.

He awoke when it was dark, and was amazed he had slept so long. He had not know how tired he
was. Then he realized that tension and fear had drained him. The memory of his fear worried him.
Except for the time he had killed the wild boar-and Guran and the others were with him-he had never
faced death before. And he had never known real fear before. Deep down, was he a coward? Did his
father ever feel fear? He brooded and worried about this, and wrote his father about this.

His father replied, by letter, that he always felt fear when facing real danger, that all men did, unless
they were stone drunk, or lying, and that fear was part of nature's equipment for survival. "Fear and
anger come from the same wells in your body," he wrote, "and in all my experience, intelligent living
things are aware of both. Fear for flight, anger for attack, and often a combination of both. Yes, Kit,
all men know fear. I have been afraid many times. Some are childish, are foolish enough not to admit
it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Aunt Bessie wrote us about your archery feat. Mother and I are
proud of you, though Mother was upset. She didn't think you'd run into a black panther in Clarksville
on the banks of the Mississippi. (Neither did I.)" The letter was signed with his father's "good mark"-
the symbol of the ring on his left hand-"closer to the heart."

But that letter would come a bit later. That night, when he awoke from his sleep of exhaustion, the
phone was still ringing, and people were still babbling on the porch. He crept down the back stairs
and entered the empty kitchen. He was hungry, and took milk and fruit from the refrigerator. Aunt
Bessie entered, her eyes shining.

"You're awake. Poor boy, you must have been so tired. Oh Kit, do you know who that little girl was
you picked up, the one you saved?"

He shook his head, munching on an apple.


"Her mother's a dear friend of mine, and she says her little girl knows you. Her name is Diana
Palmer."

Now he remembered, the little girl who had found him on the bank of the swimming hole with Guran.

"Is she okay?" he asked.

"A sprained ankle, that's all," said Aunt Bessie. "Oh Kit, so many people are waiting to see you."

The town rang with Kit's feat for weeks. Unfortunately, there had been no cameras during the actual
event, but the story was mentioned from coast to coast. It was the first time the name Kit Walker had
been seen. It was not the last time.

Life returned to normal as he went back to his routine of classes, sports, and homework. It wasn't
quite the same as before. He had become a town hero, and everyone in Clarksville knew him. People
nodded and smiled at him when he walked through the street. People standing by the fence, watering
their lawns, or working in their gardens waved and chatted. It was a warm, good feeling, as though
he had been born and raised there, as though they had known him all his life. All his anxieties, fears
and loneliness were at rest now. Though he had an occasional pang of missing his parents, he was
content and happy in Clarksville.

Then one day, a letter came from the Deep Woods. There weren't many. The last one had been weeks
before, about the black panther. He opened this one eagerly. Then he crumpled it and dropped it to
the floor, and went to his room where he remained locked in for several days, refusing any food. The
brief note from his father said simply that his mother had died suddenly of jungle fever. The end had
come while she was asleep. She had no pain. The letter told him to stay in Clarksville, as there was
no reason for him to return now. Behind his locked door, Kit wept, no schoolboy wonder, but a
lonely, unhappy child. Beautiful mother. Like a jungle animal that crawled into hiding when it was
hurt, Kit had to be alone with this pain. When he came from his room, thin and red-eyed, he accepted
his aunt and uncle's condolences silently, and talked no more about it.

CHAPTER 11
THE CHAMPION

Between studies and sports, Kit was kept busy at Clark Academy, and the four years sped by. Kit
grew in those years, mentally as well as physically. He was reaching his full height, his shoulders
broadening, his muscles filling out. And his skills in the various sports increased. The fame of the
"schoolboy wonder" spread. Offers of athletic scholarships came from many major colleges and
universities. Scouts, alumni, and coaches came to the locker rooms and even to the Carruthers' home,
trying to catch this prize. This annoyed Aunt Bessie, though Uncle Ephraim enjoyed it. The dour
man was proud of this amazing nephew and was actually learning to smile. Kit rejected all the offers.
He had come to America primarily for an education. The sports were secondary. He chose a small
college near the north woods, that specialized in forestry, for his natural interests were in this field.
He graduated with highest scholastic honors from Clark Academy, and coaches and faculty alike
were sorry to see him go. He had put the obscure little boys' school on the map. Harrison University
was to have a similar experience.

His arrival at tiny Harrison U. was heralded by the college paper and the local town newspaper. No
longer the strange foreign boy starting school, his fame had preceded him: the "schoolboy wonder,"
holder of a dozen world's scholastic track records, boxing and fencing champion, football star. News
of Kit's selection of Harrison U. had influenced other high school athletes to choose this little school.

The nucleus of a good team arrived with him, at a school whose teams had always been obscure and
unimportant.

Kit took up where he had left off at Clark. Under his young leadership, Harrison's teams mopped up
their traditional opposition-minor colleges like themselves- and their small stadiums overflowed and
were inadequate.

National television and radio crews came to broadcast these obscure games, all because of the
phenomenal Kit Walker. Schedules were hurriedly rearranged. Within a year, Harrison's teams were
invited to the major stadiums on both coasts. Their track teams entered all the national meets. Even
the boxing teams of the large universities- usually minor sports relegated to a corner of the gym-
needed larger quarters for the fans. It seems that all the world wanted to see Kit Walker.

He ran wild over the gridirons of the nation, and was an All-American choice his sophomore year.
Now, scouts of the professional football teams haunted the locker rooms, as the college scouts had
done at Clark. In track meets, Kit began to break meet records, then national records, then world
records. He trained for the ten-sport decathlon events and was looked upon as the coming champion.
A light-heavyweight boxer his freshman year, he went into the heavyweight class by his senior year,
and dominated each division, remaining undefeated. This interested promoters and professional
managers. They told him he could have a future in the boxing ring. As with the football scouts, he
put them off politely.

His courses-particularly zoology-and such subjects as botany, fascinated him. He was learning
scientific fact about the plants and animals he had always known.

College was not all studies and sports. There was an active social life, as on any college campus.
Kit's activities kept him busy, but he went to dances and parties. Girls were attracted to him, and
were surprised to find him shy and modest, and uneasy with them. He had no knowledge about girls,
either from the jungle, from Clark Academy, or from Clarksville. He had a strange old-world
courtesy that charmed the co-eds, but he had no romances those first two years. Too busy perhaps; or
waiting for someone. Who? He didn't know.

He had an inkling of 'who' during Christmas vacation in his third year. By this time, magazines,
television, and newspapers had made his face familiar. Traveling home by bus, he tried to sleep, but
autograph hunters and fans made this impossible. 'When he reached the Carruthers' home, the
neighbors' children filled the yard, waiting to see him. Bessie and Ephraim were as proud as
peacocks. There was a Christmas Eve dance at the country club, and they were anxious to show off
their famous nephew. He hesitated. That place had been off limits to him in the first months because
of Guran, and he had always refused to go after that. But his aunt and uncle were so proud and happy,
that he felt he must go to please them.

A crowd surrounded him at the bar while he drank fruit juice. The place was decorated with colorful
seasonal decorations and pine trees covered with flashing colored bulbs. Music came from the next
room where the couples were dancing. Kit was bored and needed sleep, but was polite and courteous
to all the questions. A slim dark- haired girl was brought to him by smiling Aunt Bessie. She was
sixteen or seventeen, simply dressed, with a shy smile on perfect lips. She was the most beautiful girl
Kit had ever seen.

"Do you know who this is?" asked Aunt Bessie gaily, shouting above the hubbub of music and
voices.

Kit looked at her intently. There had been so many pretty girls at all the games and meets, quick
introductions, short dances, endless crowds of pretty girls, but none like this one.

"I'm sorry," he started to say.

"You've stopped running away from home," she said. "Have you shot anything else with your bow
and arrow?" Her voice was low and pleasant, and she had a silvery laugh as she saw his confusion
about her.

"Oh, silly boy, this is Diana Palmer, don't you remember?" said Aunt Bessie.

The little girl with the lisp, missing two front teeth. A big red ribbon in her hair. The black panther.
She lived in the next town, but he hadn't seen her since that day.

"How you've grown," he said.

"So have you," she said, looking at the young giant.

She had been only eight years old when he saved her life on that dramatic afternoon. The shock of
the event had blocked most of it from her mind, so she remembered very little. What she did
remember was what she heard from her parents and other people and what she read later in the old
newspaper accounts her mother had saved. From time to time, she would have glimpses of Kit in the
street or at a movie, but he never noticed her. After all, he was a big boy, but she followed his sports
career avidly while he was at Clark and later at Harrison. She was thrilled every time she saw his
picture in the paper or heard people discussing him. Without realizing it, she had been in love with
him as long as she could remember. He was her Prince Charming, though she somehow never
expected to meet him.

But because of his success in sports, she became interested herself. She became proficient in
horseback riding and tennis, and would soon have a pilot's license. Most of all, she enjoyed
swimming. At her school, swimming and diving were a specialty because the swimming coach had
been an Olympic record holder. From twelve years old on, Diana was under his tutelage. She soon
excelled in racing, spurred on by Kit's constant publicity. But her specialty was diving. Her coach
recognized her ability and pleasure in diving-the two necessary ingredients-and devoted much time
to her. She began to win ribbons and trophies and was headed for Olympic competition one day in
the near future, where she would be a gold medal champion.

Kit remembered the little girl who had come upon him and Guran on the bank. "You were both stark
naked," she said with her silvery laughter. He also had the painful memory of the little girl sobbing
and choking, dragging herself on her knees away from the crouching black panther. The little girl in
his arms, racked with sobs. Now, she was in his arms again as they danced on this Christmas night,
and her lovely body was shaking again, this time with laughter as she recalled how he and Guran had
grabbed for their loincloths.

Kit was no longer bored and no longer sleepy. They danced and ate together, and he saw her every
night during that vacation. At the end of this time, she knew little more about his background than
she had at the start, for he spoke sparingly about his homeland. He only mentioned quickly that his
mother had died and his father lived alone somewhere. But she learned a good deal about him, his
modesty, quick wit, and courtesy. She glimpsed a strong inner core in this young man, a character of
steel that she respected and admired, and now knew she had loved almost from the first moment
they'd met. As for Kit, he was waiting for someone. He had found her. Diana.

She was in her last year of secondary school, at an Eastern girls' school, so they saw little of each
other during the following months. But she continued to follow his career intently in the newspapers.
That summer, they had a few weeks together before Diana went to Europe with her mother. They

spent these warm June days swimming or canoeing on a nearby lake, and had occasional picnics with
school friends on the grassy banks of the Mississippi. There was an Olympic-size swimming pool at
a small college near Clarksville and they went there to practice diving from the high board. Kit was
proficient at this, having had lessons from his father. But Diana's form was nearing perfection. She
had all the style and control of the Olympic gold medalist she would shortly become. If her form on a
diving board was almost perfection, her form in a bikini was absolute perfection, the kind of figure
young men dream about. Being a young man, Kit did dream about Diana, both awake and asleep, but
the dream was always troubled by the uncertainty and mystery of his own future.

She went away, promising to see him as soon as she returned in the fall, and leaving a new kind of
emptiness in his life. Then he went to the north woods to a summer job he had secured through the
Forest Service as a ranger. It was the first chance he'd had to get back into the woods, and he gloried
in it. It was an outdoor life, days on horseback, nights before a campfire, sleeping in a pup tent or
under the stars. Memories of the old life in the jungle came back strongly that summer.
But he was back at Harrison for early football practice and his senior year began.

Now, as Kit once again raced over the nation's gridirons and tracks, he reached the status of a
national sports idol. His face was on magazine covers; his name was a household word among sports
fans everywhere. News of this even reached the Deep Woods, bringing a letter from his father that
repeated simply: "Don't forget your books." That faraway world was dim to him now. He was so
much a part of this one. Thanks to Kit and his teammates, tiny Harrison U.'s enrollment had tripled.
A huge expansion program of classroom buildings and dormitories was under way, and a giant new
stadium was rising on the edge of town.

A startling thing happened one day in the early spring. Boxing's Heavyweight Champion of the
World was passing through the town, on his way to a major fight. Because of the scheduling, his
managers planned that he would stop over at the town and have a workout at Harrison's gym. There
were several sparring partners along with the famous champion. But the manager and his party had
heard about Harrison's great athlete, Kit Walker, who among other things held the Intercollegiate
heavyweight boxing title. Kit was almost as celebrated as the real champion, and the manager
decided it would be great publicity if his man could box a round with the college wonder boy.
Kit was not eager for this, as it meant missing a botany lab class, but he agreed when the publicity
office asked him to do it as a favor to the school. Word got around campus that Kit would face the
champion. It also reached the radio, television, and news sources, and the gym was filled to capacity.
What was supposed to be a quiet workout had turned into an exciting event.

The champion was amused by all the excitement and his manager was delighted. The idea had been
publicity. He noted the television cameras, microphones, and flash cameras with satisfaction. The
coming fight needed publicity. This might do it. "Take it easy on the college boy," he told the Champ.
The Champ nodded and grinned. College boy or not, he intended to look good in front of this crowd
and these cameras.

A regulation ring had been set up in the center of the gym. There were temporary bleachers on four
sides, and the balcony above. The big gym, used for basketball as well as other sports, seated 5,000
people, and every seat was filled, plus spectators packed on the stairs and in the aisles. The entire
school and town had turned out. The Champ entered the ring first. He was greeted with loud
applause by the friendly audience. He waited impatiently in the ring with his manager and handlers.
Where was Kit? You don't keep the champion waiting. Was he afraid? The crowd buzzed. Then Kit
bounded into the gym and bounced over the ropes. The crowd roared. The Champ noticed with
annoyance that this roar was twice as loud as his own greeting. "Excuse me," said Kit trying to lace
his own gloves. "I had a botany exam. I came as quickly as I could."

"That's flowers," explained the manager to the Champ. The Champ grunted. "He'll need them."
"Now take it easy," said the manager. "This is only a workout."

"Sure," said the Champ. Kit's easy manner had irritated him. An amateur didn't box every day with a
worlds' champion. A smart college kid. And all his smart college friends out there, cheering for the
college boy to "knock him flat!" Were they kidding?

Kit's college coach helped with the gloves, a teammate laced Kit's shoes, and he was ready. The
boxing coach called for silence, and announced the event through a microphone. "Let's pretend we're
at Madison Square Garden," he said, and the crowd laughed. "On my right, the heavyweight
champion of the world." The champion bowed, and the crowd cheered. There were a few boos. The
champion scowled. "In this corner, our own Kit Walker." The crowd exploded, a tremendous ovation.
The Champ gritted his teeth. They were all pulling for that smart college kid. And besides, the
champion was always presented last, not first. "This is a workout for the Champ and his coming
match," said the coach. "Let's hope he takes mercy on our own Kit, we need him." The crowd
laughed, the others cleared the ring, and someone rang a bell, also causing a laugh.

The Champ eyed his opponent carefully. He was big and powerful, but so were most heavyweights.
And he moved well. Okay, he told himself. Let's go. They sparred easy. Kit had no intention of
making a fight of it. This was a favor, a workout for the professional fighter. The cameras were on
them. The Champ noted this as he circled Kit. He suddenly lashed out, a sharp blow that Kit only
partially blocked. Then another, knocking him against the ropes. The manager chewed his cigar
nervously. What was his Champ trying to prove with a college boy? The crowd watched, not yet
realizing this fight was for real. Kit wasn't quite sure about that either. But in a clinch, the Champ hit
him viciously just below the belt and muttered, "Come on, college boy." Kit reacted instantly. He
broke away, but began to weave and circle, blocked a hard block, and hit the Champ hard. The
Champ shook his head and grinned. "Is that all you can do college boy?" He sneered, and slammed
hard at Kit, knocking him toward the ropes. Kit danced away. This man was tougher than anyone he
had ever faced. The World Champion. But he had a feeling that amazed him. He felt he could handle
this man. He hit back, and they began to slug at each other, toe-to-toe in the ring.

The crowd began to roar. The manager yelled from the sidelines. But there was no stopping the
Champ. He realized now that this college boy was no easy mark. He was tough and strong and
skillful. So was the Champ. He belted Kit again, and during a quick clinch, muttered an obscenity in
his ear. It had to do with his mother. Kit remained cool. He could control the killer in himself now.
But his fists exploded on the Champ's jaw and the Champ staggered to his knees. As the manager
tried to break through to the ropes to stop them, several collegians barred the way. "He wants a
fight," they yelled. "Let them fight."

It was rare for this champion even to have one knee on the mat, and the fact was duly recorded by all
the television and newspaper reporters. But that was not all. He bounded to his feet, determined to
finish this college upstart. Kit belted him hard in the stomach, a tremendous blow that could be heard
all the way to the botany lab, and the crowd groaned with it. As the Champ doubled up in pain, Kit
landed three times on his jaw, his fists moving like trip-hammers. The Champ fell like one of the tall
oaks Kit had chopped the previous summer. He hit the canvas with a loud thump. There was a
silence in the big gym. No one had ever knocked the Champ down, much less out. And out he was.
Kit helped the panicked manager and others carry him over the ropes from the ring. Then he waited
while a campus doctor hurriedly examined the unconscious Champ in silence. The Champ opened
his eyes and growled. The doctor talked to him. He was groggy, but okay. Kit, waiting anxiously at
the ropes, smiled at that. The watching crowd now broke loose. If sound waves could really raise the
rafters, the roof would have flown off that day. They roared and screamed and screeched and yelled.
Also, they laughed. Their own Kit had beaten the Champion of the World, beaten him good!

The nation's television viewers watched the short match in sixty million living rooms that night. The
world press reported the event, with full pages of action photos.

When Kit came out of the shower in the locker room, the manager was waiting for him, with a
contract. The Champ's coming match was to be postponed until he recovered from this workout. As
for Kit, the sky was the limit, the manager assured him. He could make millions. Kit thanked him,
but said he wasn't interested in a professional career of that sort. Before the Champ left the gym, he
insisted upon seeing Kit. All watched this meeting anxiously. Kit was wrapped only in a towel.
Photographers were at hand, recording every moment. Microphones listened, television cameras
watched. The Champ's face was bruised and his jaw was swollen.

"Sam says you turned down his offer," he said, glancing at the nervous manager at his side. "I don't
know why, but I'm glad of that. You're too much," he grinned, and put out his hand. Kit smiled and
shook his hand, and the crowd shouted its approval.

The publicity of the fight worried Kit. He hoped it would not reach his father in the Deep Woods,
and give the Twentieth the idea that he was forgetting his books.

CHAPTER 12
KIT WALKER DAY

Spring is beautiful almost everywhere. This spring was especially beautiful for Kit. His senior year,
his last spring at Harrison. It was the time for spring dances, for young lovers to walk hand in hand in
the shaded campus groves. Diana, still at girls' school in the east, came to Harrison several times to
see Kit. Now almost eighteen, her early promise of beauty was fulfilled. She had grown into a
magnificent young woman with hair like a black cloud. And she loved this young hero of Harrison.
And Kit loved Diana. She still had four years of college ahead of her, but when she spoke lightly of
the future, as a girl in love might, Kit became troubled and avoided the subject.

As the son of the Phantom, he could make no normal plans for the future. Sometimes he daydreamed
about it. Diana in the Skull Cave-that seemed impossible, this girl from a rich family, beautiful
clothes, private schools, European vacations, devoted to opera, concerts, theater, and achieving a
place for herself in this world of athletics as an Olympic diver-Diana in the Skull Cave? Not only
impossible. Ridiculous. So he never told her about the Cave, only the jungle. His reticence troubled
her, but she trusted him. He must have a good reason.

But the spring was bringing more than graduation and proms to Kit. The huge stadium that had been
built near the campus, largely through the prominence he had brought to Harrison, was now
completed. And the university and students announced plans to honor their All-American star with a
special "Kit Walker Day" in the new structure. Among the invited guests would be the state's
senators and congressmen; twelve high-school marching bands; assorted mayors, judges, and other
dignitaries; and fifty thousand friends and relatives. The great day came a week before final
examinations began and would be the climax of his four-year career at Harrison. Diana came from
the East, Aunt Bessie, Uncle Ephraim and a contingent of friends came from Clarksville; old
classmates from Clark came, including Jackson; everybody who had met or known this extraordinary
boy from the jungles of Bangalla came, even the Champ, with his retinue, to honor the "college kid"
who had knocked him out.

By now, Uncle Ephraim was as proud of Kit as if he had been his own son. And Diana had stars in
her eyes. It seemed the whole world loved her hero. What would happen after this month remained
vague to Kit. He put it all out of his mind. Diana was with him, and that was all that mattered. Not
quite all. Naturally, "Kit Walker Day" excited and pleased him, once it became a reality. He had tried

to call off the event, but his pleas were ignored. Harrison U., no longer tiny, was determined to honor
her favorite son.

The night before the big day, Kit was at the senior prom with Diana who floated like a dream in
white chiffon across the polished dance floor-this was in the big gym, now decorated with flowers
and streamers, where Kit had fought the heavyweight champion. That day had been tremendous. The
small town was filled with strangers; hotels had to turn away people; private homes took them in.
People slept in their cars, in buses, or on the grass. There was no room in the small town for the
crowds that had come to honor Kit Walker.

After dinner with Diana, Bessie and Ephraim at the hotel, and the prom with Diana, which aunt and
uncle attended as spectators, he bade them all good-night. There was a big day ahead for him. He
walked Diana along the quiet campus walk to the women's dormitory, kissed her good-night-not
once but many times-and raced back to his room, his head filled with her delicate perfume. Then he
Sat and stared at the walls. A panorama of the years sped through his mind. The ship, Clark, Harrison,
Diana. What now?

There was a sound at his second-floor window. Then another. He shook himself out of his reverie
and went toward the window. Someone was throwing pebbles lightly against the glass. A fellow
student? A fan? He looked out to the shadowy lawn below. A small figure was looking up at him. A
child? No. A black man in a suit that was ridiculously large for him-hanging over his hands and
shoes. Guran of the pygmy poison people.

CHAPTER 13
THE RETURN OF GURAN

"Guran," Kit called, leaning out of the window. The little man nodded, satisfied he had come to the
right place. Kit was about to tell him to wait, and to go down to meet him, but Guran didn't wait.
There was a drainpipe on the wall, and he quickly climbed up to Kit's window. He came into the
room and the two faced each other.

Ten years had passed since they'd seen each other. A full decade. Guran, now thirty-two (Kit figured
rapidly), seemed unchanged, a stocky little figure whose head barely reached above Kit's waist.

Guran looked up at Kit. He had left a slim boy. He now faced a powerful young giant. They looked
at each other awkwardly. Kit's first impulse had been to embrace his old friend. But Guran seemed
stiff and formal, and, at a second glance, had changed. He was heavier, his face lined, and more
mature. In the brief moment before Guran spoke, Kit had a sinking feeling of apprehension. Why
was he here?

"I bring you a message from the Deep Woods," said Guran in his simple pygmy tongue. "Your father
asks that you return at once."

"Is he sick?" said Kit, trying to read the stolid face.

"He is dying," said Guran. Like all his people, he did not mince words. He came to the point. Dying?
His father, the Twentieth? As strong as an oak, as solid as granite? It was not possible. His legs
suddenly felt weak. He sat in a chair.

"Dying. How Soon?" he asked.

"Soon. He waits for you," said Guran.

"What is it? Disease, accident?" asked Kit.

"Knife-wounds," said Guran. "Bandits."

There was no time for further details now. That would come later. Kit must leave at once. Now.
"Now?"

To Guran the pygmy, "now" was not tomorrow, not in four hours or ten minutes. Now was right now.
Kit's mind raced. Tomorrow-Kit Walker Day. Exams. Graduation. Diana. Father dying. Now.

It was now because a small chartered plane was waiting at the local airport. It was necessary to leave
in the plane at once to reach the scheduled flight in the large overseas plane that made the direct trip
to Bangalla. If they missed that plane, there was no other direct flight for another week. That might
be too late.

Kit was too confused at that moment to wonder how Guran had made all these arrangements. He
learned later that old Doctor Axel, summoned from his Jungle Hospital to the Skull Cave, had done it
all. Kit grabbed his toilet articles and threw them into a little old duffel bag. It didn't occur to him at
that moment that it was the same duffel bag he had brought to America. He looked at his closet full
of clothes, trousers, sweaters, team uniforms; his bureau full of shirts, and socks, and all the rest;
shelves of books, notebooks, and photos. A large framed photo of Diana was on his desk. He put it in
the duffel bag. Everything else would be useless in the Deep Woods. One last look at his room. He
started toward the door, then stopped. There were friends in the halls. No one must see him leave. He
went to the window and slid down the drainpipe, Guran following him.

It was late at night, few people were out, most of the college was asleep. Kit and Guran moved
quickly to some bushes.

"Wait here," he said.

"Must leave now," said Guran flatly.

"There is one thing I must do. Wait," repeated Kit. He left the duffel bag with Guran and moved
across the campus lawn, keeping behind trees and bushes to avoid being noticed by the few couples
still enjoying the mild spring night. He reached the women's dormitory. He knew in which room
Diana was sleeping. There was no drainpipe handy, but the large granite blocks of the wall gave him
a foothold and he climbed high to the third floor. Diana's window was open and the room dark.
"Diana," he whispered. "Diana."

There was a frightened intake of breath from the dark room, a pause, then the soft low voice.
"Is that you Kit?"

"Yes, I must talk to you."

A rustle of silk, and she came to the window, her hair hanging below her shoulders.

"Oh Kit," she said in alarm, "You shouldn't have climbed up. Please come in. You'll fall."

"No time, Diana, darling, I must say good-bye," he said.

Good-bye? Was she dreaming? Or had Kit gone mad?

Or was he drunk? But he never drank alcohol of any kind.

"Good-bye?" she said faintly.

"I can't explain. I will someday. But I must go home. At once. My father is dying," he said.

His father dying? Part of the mystery he would never speak about. Now the mystery was suddenly
real, big and dark, coming between them.

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say. Then. .. "Will you come back?"

"I don't know. But I will write you," he said.

"Kit Walker Day?" she said, suddenly remembering.

"I can't wait. Diana, please tell them nothing. You haven't seen me tonight. I'll write later to Aunt
Bessie and Ephraim. But I want no one to know."

"What will they think?" she asked.

He was sitting on the windowsill in the darkness. There was a half-moon low in the sky, and Diana's
lovely face was white in the moonlight.

"I don't know what they'll think, but I'm late now. I had to come to say good-bye."

She put her hands on his shoulders, suddenly frantic that he was leaving.

"How did you know about your father? What happened?" she asked.

"A messenger came. He is waiting. I can stay no longer," he whispered. "Diana. I love you."

He kissed her lightly on the lips, then on the forehead.

"Good-bye."

"Oh Kit . . ."

But he was already on his way down. She leaned out, watching fearfully as he climbed down a story,
then dropped to the lawn. He waved from the dark ground, then rushed off. She stared in the
darkness, following his retreating figure.

He disappeared among some bushes. Then, she vaguely saw his figure, followed by a small figure,
disappear into the night. Was the smaller figure a child? Her mind raced back a decade. Kit and
Guran the pygmy, on the banks of the swimming hole. Was that the messenger? She watched the
moon move behind dark clouds. Then she stretched out on her bed, and wept into the pillow. It had
all been so unreal. Maybe it was a dream, a nightmare. When she awoke in the morning, he would be
waiting for her at the foot of the broad stairs. But the hollow feeling inside told her it was no dream.

CHAPTER 14
WHERE IS KIT WALKER

The day dawned bright and cool and beautiful, perfect weather for the big event. People poured into
the new stadium; the twelve high school marching bands; the athletes and singers, the senators and
congressmen and mayors and assorted dignitaries, and the fifty thousand friends and relatives. "Kit
Walker Day" banners were stretched across the main street. Similar banners were on dozens of
chartered buses that had brought people from all parts of the state and were parked in rows outside
the stadium. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were there, waiting in the center box reserved for Kit
himself. Diana was to come with him. But Diana didn't come. Neither did Kit Walker.

The bands and the entertainers waited. The senators and congressmen and mayors waited. The fifty
thousand friends and fans and relatives waited. All eyes were on the center box. Aunt Bessie was
worried. Uncle Ephraim became more impatient as time went on. "Has he run away again?" he
muttered. Ephraim couldn't know he'd guessed correctly. Phone calls were made, then students went
to his room. All his clothes and books were there, everything in order. Someone thought of trying
Diana. She had a headache, it was reported and would see no one. No, she knew nothing about her
date, Kit Walker.

Now impatience turned to alarm. What had happened to him? Hospitals were called; alarms went to
the police; bulletins were telegraphed and broadcast. Where is Kit Walker? An accident? Had
gangsters kidnapped him? Hundreds had seen him at the prom the night before. He'd been seen by
many, walking Diana to the dorm. Friends had seen him enter his room that night. Kit Walker Day
was a fiasco.

Bessie and Ephraim left, to find their nephew. The program committee decided to go ahead with the
entertainment, to avoid disappointment to thousands of visitors. So the bands marched and played,
and the gymnasts whirled. The chorus sang, and the politicians made speeches, and all were directed
at the empty center box draped with flags and banners. But it all sounded hollow, as empty as the
center box itself. For the hero was gone.

The investigation spread. A tight-lipped Diana was questioned, but had no answers. Train stations
and airports were watched. Nearby lakes and rivers were dragged. Kit Walker's disappearance
became a national seven-day wonder. One of the greatest athletes in the history of collegiate sport
had simply vanished on the eve of his greatest honor. The mystery was discussed, probed, argued in
every newspaper and home in America. Kit's past was looked into, in the hopes of finding a clue.
That only deepened the mystery. Bangalla was remote, far away. Correspondents in that distant land
had never heard of him, or any Walker family. It was a marvelous mystery. Half the girls in America
were in love with this sports hero whose photo adorned their bedroom walls. To vanish, and at such a
time! It was too much! It was as though the earth had swallowed him up.

Diana kept her promise to Kit and revealed nothing. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim's despair caused
her to talk to them one night.

"If I tell you something about Kit, will you promise never to repeat it?" she asked them. They agreed
anxiously. "Cross your heart and hope to die if you ever tell?" insisted Diana, using a formula from
childhood. They solemnly obeyed her. "Kit is well. He went away. You can guess where," she said.
Their smiles and tears of relief rewarded her. Kit wouldn't have minded that.

Where was Kit Walker? demanded a world press, intrigued by this disappearance of a national sports
idol. But there was no answer. The widespread interest finally subsided, but it was a mystery that
people would discuss for years to come, one of the celebrated disappearance cases. Now and then a
magazine writer would rehash the story with photos of the famous athlete, asking the old question.
"Had the earth swallowed up Kit Walker?"

The earth had swallowed up Kit Walker. For there would be no more Kit Walker. He had vanished
into mystery.

CHAPTER 15
RETURN OF THE NATIVE

When Kit and Guran left the campus that dark night, a taxi was waiting. Kit was determined to leave
no clues. Guran entered the taxi which he had hired, Kit remaining in the shadows. Guran, speaking
no English, gave the driver written instructions to return him to the airport. As the taxi started off,
Kit came from behind, climbing onto the rear spare tire where he hung on, unseen. Near the airport,
he dropped off as the taxi slowed down, and joined Guran on the field. It was late, and the few
personnel on the field were sleepy and disinterested in the small chartered plane. Kit kept his face
concealed from the pilot, through the use of sunglasses and a cap pulled low over his face.

They arrived at the metropolitan airport with only minutes to spare, but it turned out the departure of
the big overseas plane had been delayed. At this hour, the big terminal was largely deserted, with
only a scattering of drowsy people on the benches. Kit kept separated from Guran. The little man
would attract attention. Wandering through the lobby, an item in a novelties counter caught Kit's
attention. A false mustache intended for children. He bought it, and going into a men's room, put it
on. With the large sunglasses and cap, the big black mustache completely disguised him.

Soon, they were in the air, bound for Bangalla. The foreign plane was half-filled, and while his face
might have been recognized on most American streets, he was a stranger to these travelers to
Bangalla, and did not really need the mustache. But he kept it on. There might be one person who
knew his face. The secrecy and anonymity that Kit had fallen into so quickly was part of his
childhood training. Without being told, he at once knew this was the expected behavior. Expected by
whom? By the Phantom line, from the First to the Twentieth. And what about the Twentieth?

As they dozed and ate on the plane crossing the ocean, Guran told him about his father. Bandits had
attacked the missionary school of Father Mona in the jungle. The young priest, some elderly helpers
and fifty young native girls had no arms to defend themselves. The bandits took over the school,
looted the supplies and small treasury, and began to terrorize the girls when the Twentieth arrived.
Tom-tom signals had carried news of this raid to him. He burst upon the rogues like an avenging
angel, Father Mona reported later, and single-handedly overcame a half dozen. The other half dozen
fled for their lives into the woods. But in the furious fight, the Twentieth was badly hurt. Father
Mona bandaged his wounds, but he refused to stay in the school. He had to return to the Deep Woods,
and none could stop him. To the priest's amazement, he rode off on his black stallion, a successor to
Thunder. Father Mona said he never knew how he climbed onto his horse, or stayed on, his wounds
were so serious. But as long as a Phantom can move, he would return to the Deep Woods, or be
carried there.

When the Twentieth reached the Deep Woods, he fell off his horse in a dead faint. Guran's father, the
old chief, knew that his big friend was badly hurt, that he might be dying. He had lost much blood
from his terrible wounds. He was beyond pygmy help. They put him on his fur pallet in the Skull
Cave. Guran's father, the old chief, remembered Dr. Axel. He had been one of the warriors who had
brought the young doctor to the Deep Woods to assist at Kit's birth. Now Dr. Axel had his Jungle
Hospital a day's run away. The chief sent Guran and a few other pygmies for him. Dr. Axel, twenty-
two years older now and wiser in the ways of the jungle, knew who these pygmies were this time,
and immediately understood what they wanted. Thus, a generation later, he returned to the Deep
Woods. Once again, he was blindfolded as on that first trip. But this time he was not afraid.

He had seen his big masked friend once or twice during the years. There had been other wounds that
needed healing; and once, his hospital had needed the help of the protective mark as the Phantom had
promised. But now he was dismayed when he saw his friend. He used his medicines, and did what he
could. He brought the Twentieth back to consciousness, but told him the truth. He could not live
more than a few days. He was wrong about that. The Twentieth had no intention of dying without
seeing his son. He simply refused. Guran, the only pygmy who had ever seen foreign shores-which
made him a celebrity among his people-was dispatched once more. So it happened that he found
himself that night beneath Kit's window at Harrison University.

Kit listened somberly to the story. If Dr. Axel was right, his father might be dead now. Guran shook
his head at that. "He said he would wait for you. He will," said the little man seriously. Such was the
faith of the Bandar in the Twentieth. He had never gone back on his word. He would not do so now.
Though saddened by this journey, Kit was thrilled by the faith his father inspired in these people, and
the old admiration of the little boy for the father came back strongly.

On this trip, the strangeness between Kit and Guran was partially dissipated. Kit told him of his
adventures in America, asked many questions about his friends in the Deep Woods, and the two
laughed and joked as they had in the old days. For despite the seriousness of the mission, life goes on,
and youth is strong and hopeful. The strangeness disappeared only partially. Not completely. For
both had matured, and Kit felt that Guran was looking at him in a new way. Beneath the camaraderie,
there was a new respect in Guran's manner, a new deference that Kit did not yet understand.

When they arrived at the airport at Mawitaan, the sleepy seaport capital of Bangalla, the trip began to
be real for Kit. The air, the distant mountains, the sounds and smells, the smiling black faces, the
melodious accents, the bright costumes, it was like returning to an old dream. This feeling would
increase with every step he took toward the Deep Woods.

Leaving the airport, they went by carriage to the edge of the jungle. They had only walked a short
distance, when they were met by a group of Wambesi warriors, ten in all. They looked at Kit
curiously, wondering who he was. Word had come from the Deep Woods to escort this stranger who
would arrive with Guran, Prince of the Bandar. Possibly some of them had been among the
thousand-strong warriors that had taken him to the town a decade earlier. If so, none of them would
see that boy in this young bronze giant. Perhaps giant was a misnomer for Kit. He was tall, a half
foot over six feet. But his muscles were so powerfully developed from his years of sports, that he
seemed like a true giant.

As soon as they were well into the jungle, Kit and Guran both began to discard their outer clothing.
Off went the shoes, socks, coat, trousers, shirt, everything! Kit fashioned a loincloth from his shirt.
Guran was wearing his own. They jogged along the quiet trail with the Wambesi. The Clarksville-
Harrison years were rapidly slipping away. A warrior handed Kit a spear. He paused, then hurled it
into a distant tree trunk where it sank in a foot, quivering.

The warriors, all expert spearsmen, applauded this stranger. In the few days that followed, they
learned that he was no novice in this jungle. He hunted with them for meat, and gathered edible roots
and berries. To their amazement he spoke their language fluently. Halfway on the journey, an escort
of Llongo waited. The Wambesi departed with good memories of this friend of the Phantom. Kit
chatted amiably with the Llongo in their dialect, instantly winning their friendship. None suspected
his true identity. For to the Liongo, Wambesi, and all jungle folk, the Phantom was the Ghost Who
Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die. It followed that he had no sons, no heirs. He needed none. Of all
the jungle, only the pygmy Bandar knew the truth.

Now the jungle had become thicker, denser. The Liongo became nervous. They were beyond their

own boundaries. This was no-man's-land. A place of headhunters and cannibals, it was said. Little
Guran found trails and openings in the thick bush that no one else could see. Then the Llongo
suddenly stopped. They had gone far enough. If one listened carefully, one could hear the distant
roar of a waterfall. This was definitely forbidden land. As if to reinforce this decision, a pygmy
suddenly stood up in the bushes. His arrow was in his bow. Another appeared in a tree, arrow
pointed at them. Then another. And another. Guran held up his arms in greeting. The arrows
remained in the bows. Kit thanked the Llongo as they began a slow retreat. They then turned and ran.
They were brave, but the poison weapons of the pygmies were well known. A simple scratch meant
death, in agony, or so it was reported, and none wished to prove the point. In moments, they were
gone.

The pygmies looked curiously at Kit. None could see the little boy who had left so long ago. Guran
explained rapidly in the clicks and clacks that formed their tongue. Kit greeted them in the same way.
They came out of the bushes and down from the trees, and embraced him like the long lost friend
that he was. Some of them had been children with him.

But the happy greeting was heavy with sadness.

"Is my father alive?" Kit asked them.

"He is alive," they told him, but they said it without joy. Kit raced toward the waterfall, filled with
anxiety and anticipation. Other pygmies came out of the bushes to greet them. Ahead was the roaring,
foaming waterfall, the secret entrance to the Deep Woods. Surrounded by the pygmies, Kit rushed
through the torrent. The cold mountain water drenched him, washing off the dust of days, and
invigorating his tired body.

As he came out of the waterfall, the entire village was waiting for him. The little men, women and
children stood silently watching him. The big bronze man was little Kit! A few smiled shyly, but this
was not a happy homecoming.

Kit's breath quickened. There was the Skull Throne, and the Skull Cave as he had seen it a hundred
times in his dreams and in his daydreams. The old chief, Guran's father, stepped forward. "Welcome,
Kit," he said, with quiet dignity. "You have returned in good time. Your father is waiting for you."
Kit ran into the cave.

CHAPTER 16
THE CRYPT

As he entered the cave, he instinctively looked for his beautiful mother. She had always been waiting
there for him, just inside the entrance, out of the hot sun. He realized with a sickening feeling that
she was no longer there. How long ago had she died? Five, six years? There had been that letter. He
ran out, past the chamber of costumes and the Chronicles, past the major and minor treasure rooms
with their glittering contents ("A whole roomful?" Uncle Ephraim had said, looking at the handful of
jewels.) Now he reached the large rocky chamber where his father lay on a pile of furs. Two pygmies
sat near him. They rose when Kit entered and quickly left.

His father was clad only in a loincloth. His chest, legs, arms, shoulder and forehead were wrapped in
white bandages, covering more than a dozen wounds. His eyes were closed as Kit approached him.
"Father," he said.

The Twentieth opened his eyes. He had been expecting his son and was not surprised. He looked up

at him, at this son grown to powerful young manhood. He smiled faintly, and in a soft voice said
words uttered by parents in all ages.

"How you have grown."

Kit remembered the mighty body of his father from the days of swimming on the beaches of Keela-
Wee and Eden, and from dips in jungle pools. Now, the attrition of his deadly battles was evident. He
had lost weight, and the movement of his hand was slow and weak as he touched Kit's arms, Kit sat
beside him.

"You're going to get well, father," he said. His father shook his head. Again his deep voice was faint
so that Kit leaned forward to hear him better.

"I'm living on borrowed time. Axel predicted I'd be gone by now. I fooled him." He laughed softly,
an effort that turned into a wracking cough. Kit took his hand.

"Kit I am dying. I stayed alive to see you. There is not much time. Remember the Oath?"

Kit nodded, pressing his father's hand.

"Yes," he said, "I remember."

His father began the Oath of the Skull, pausing after each phrase so that Kit might repeat it.

"I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice, and my sons and
their sons shall follow me."

That done, the Twentieth raised his left hand weakly.

"The rings, Kit."

Kit hesitated.

"Are you certain, father?" he asked. The rings were the final step.

"The rings," said his father, his voice more urgent and hurried now.

Kit removed the ring from the left hand and gave it to his father. Trembling, the father placed it on
the ring finger of Kit's left hand.

"For the protection of good people," he whispered, fighting for breath. "The other."

He could no longer raise his hands. Kit removed the ring from the right hand. This was the death's-
head ring, bearing the skull, the ancient symbol of the Phantom, known to all the jungle folk, to
pirates of the seven seas, and to evil doers everywhere.

With Kit's help, his father slipped the skull ring onto his right hand.

"The ring of the Oath, Kit. Be faithful to it."

"I will be faithful to it."

"You know the rest-the mask-" began his father.

Kit bent low, speaking near his father's ear, "The mask for secrecy," he answered.

"The treasure."

"The treasure, used only for the good," he answered.

"The Chronicles."

"It will be written."

Kit was repeating the words he had learned as a child. His father's hand suddenly grasped his,
desperately.

"Kit, your mother missed you so much-wanted to see you once more-must wait-now-"

He was struggling to say something else. His body trembled with the effort, and his hoarse whisper
was so soft Kit could barely hear him.

"Kit, there will be good times-and bad times-"

Kit waited for more, his ear near his father's lips, but there was no more. A rush of breath, his hand
relaxed. Breathing stopped. He was dead.

Kit lowered his head and sat in silence. Guran had said, "He said he will wait for you. He wills it."
He was right. Such was the strength of this amazing man. By some mysterious force in him, he had
held off death long enough to see his son. He had willed it so.

Kit sat for some time in meditation next to his father in the flickering light of the torches set in the
rocky walls. Then, from the early training, he knew what was required. He picked up his father and
carried him to that musty cool chamber called the Crypt. He must do this alone, for that was the
tradition of his ancestors. The chamber was lined with their vaults, from the First to the Nineteenth.
Next to the latter was the undated tablet, the Twentieth. Near it on the floor was a stone box
containing old iron tools. When had his father put that there? With the tools, he removed the undated
tablet. Behind it was a metal casket. When had his father obtained that? It was the morbid task of
each Phantom to select and install his own casket. Kit removed the casket, and carefully placed his
father in it. He bent down and kissed the still-warm cheek, and memories of this patient generous
man flooded his eyes with tears.

"Good-bye father," he whispered.

He replaced the metal cover and slowly returned the casket to its niche in the wall. Then, the next
duty. Among the iron tools were a hammer and chisel. This was also his task, since none but the
Phantom or his family could enter the Crypt. After marking numerals on the tablet with a crayon also
found in the stone box, he began to chisel slowly and carefully: Below, the Twentieth, the years of
his birth and death. That done, he hammered the tablet into place. After sweeping the floor and
replacing the tools, he wearily surveyed his work. Now, the ancient line stretched from the First to
the Twentieth. Twenty generations of bold unselfish men who had dedicated their lives to the fight
against evil, and to promote the good. Now that he knew the outside world and had studied the past,
Kit realized that this Phantom line was unique and without a parallel anywhere that he knew in the
entire history of mankind. His sadness was replaced by pride as he looked at the vaults. "My family,"
he thought. "I am one of them."

He looked again at the freshly chiseled plaque covering his father's vault. Next to it was another
undated plaque. That would be his someday. The Twenty-first. That was an odd thought. But it did
not disturb him. To youth, as to soldiers going into battle, death is for other people.

Now he stepped out of the vault to the room of costumes, as was prescribed. There, on a stone bench,
was a costume waiting for him, mask, hood, tights, trunks, gun- belt, and guns. How long had this
been waiting for him? He put on the outfit. It fit. He almost smiled at that. Through the years in
America, his parents had asked him to write his height and weight each year, so they could follow
the growth of their absent son. It was a sentimental request. With those annual reports and
photographs they felt closer to the development of their child as he grew to manhood. But in the last
years, it had a practical use as well. The costume fit.

He often wondered about this particular costume. It seemed unsuited for the jungle. His father
explained. The First had created the costume to fit the superstitious image of a certain avenging spirit
that people of the jungle and coast believed in, in that era. The fear his appearance created helped
him in his battle against the wild barbarism and savagery of his time. His son and those that followed
continued the use of the same costume, and the legend of immortality started, that he was always the
same man. That too was a major aid in the single-handed struggle against evil.

By the light of a burning torch, he looked at his image in the long metal mirror that had been his
mother's. His appearance surprised and almost shocked him. Until one looked very closely, he
looked just like his father. Roughly the same size, and the same outline. He picked up the two guns.
They had been his father's. Beautiful polished deadly weapons. How soon would he have to use them,
he wondered? A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Of those bandits who had attacked Father Morra's
missionary school-the battle that caused his father's death-six had been overcome, but six had
escaped by fleeing into the jungle. They must be found and brought to justice. He put the guns in the
holsters, then drew quickly, as he had practiced so many times. He knew his life might depend on the
quickness of that draw. Replacing the guns, he walked to the next chamber containing the Chronicles.
Here, torches burned. A large new volume lay on the podium near the shelves of the volumes
containing all the adventures of twenty Phantoms. He opened the new volume. The pages were blank.
There was a quill pen and a small container of ink made of wild berries. He wrote the date at the top
of the page and made his first entry.

"June 17: Today, my father died of wounds suffered at the hands of bandits who had attacked Father
Mona's missionary hospital. He killed or wounded six. Six escaped. It will be my purpose to capture
those six as soon as possible and see that they are properly punished by law."

He walked slowly through the treasure rooms. The "minor" treasure room heaped with jewels and
gold. How Uncle Ephraim would love to see this! Then the major treasure room with its priceless
objects of antiquity. He picked up the heavy glittering cup of Alexander, carved from a single giant
diamond. He smiled, remembering how he had dropped it and his father's anger; and his father's
description of Alexander. "Some call him Great." He had been in these rooms a thousand times. But
now it all seemed different. The responsibility for all this was now his.

He knew the Bandar were waiting outside for him. He walked back through the vast cave, stopping
once more at the Crypt. He stood there in silence. For a fleeting moment, he had the strange
impression that a host of smiling masked faces looked down upon him from the walls and ceiling. A
whisper seemed to come from them, and it echoed and re-echoed in the rocky chamber.

"Welcome. We trust you."

He shook himself. The faces were gone. Imagination is a strange thing. But he looked proudly at the
line of vaults, from the First to the Twentieth.

"I will do my best," he said.

And he walked slowly out of the cave where a hundred torches burned, to where the gathered Bandar
awaited him.

CHAPTER 17
LONG LIVE THE PHANTOM

As he stepped into the torchlight, a roar came from the pygmies. Every man, woman, and child of the
tribe of pygmies was there.

"The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom," they cried, using the ancient formula a long-dead
Phantom had taught them. The smiling little people crowded about him to touch him. They had all
loved his father. But there was no more sadness. These jungle people lived close to the earth and to
the eternal cycles of life and death and the renewal of life in all living things. So there was no
sadness. Their old friend was gone, but he had returned young and strong again. Now Kit realized the
wisdom and importance of the Phantom costume. He was accepted without question, receiving all
the acclaim and honors his ancestors had earned before him. It was his duty to uphold this honor.

He walked slowly to the Skull Throne while the laughing little people swarmed about him. To them,
life was normal and good again. The Phantom was back. He sat on the stone throne with its stone
skull carved on either side. This throne symbolized his role in the jungle as Keeper of the Peace. And
on occasion, the tribal chiefs would gather here to discuss their problems with him or to settle
disputes. But no Phantom had ever attempted to rule, and was not regarded as a ruler by any of the
jungle folk. He was their ancient friend, whose only mission was to help bring peace among the
perpetually warring tribes, and to help punish evildoers.

"Phantom, Phantom," the Bandar shouted, as they prepared a great feast in the clearing before the
throne. Their shouts could be heard even beyond the roaring waterfall, and careless jungle folk who
had wandered too close to the Deep Woods left hurriedly, wondering what strange ceremony was
occurring among the pygmy poison people.

As he watched the preparations for the feast-which included the carcass of a small elephant and
would go on for a week-images were racing through his mind. Clarksville, Harrison, Diana. Kit
Walker Day. What had happened at the stadium? He would ask Diana someday, for he intended to
see her again as soon as he could. But not as Kit Walker.

Now as he sat on the ancient Skull Throne, the seat of his ancestors, with the Bandar cries of
"Phantom, Phantom," ringing in his ears, he was no longer Kit Walker, the Harrison phenomenon.
That Kit Walker was gone, dead. He had become nameless, or many-named. For men of many
nations would use many names for him in their own tongues, some of them unprintable. He would
move in the shadows, his face never to be seen again except by his wife and the children of his blood.
His would be a life of mystery and danger, and he was to create terror in evildoers and happiness for
people of goodwill. And he would work alone, for this was the Phantom credo. The Ghost Who
Walks. The Man Who Cannot Die.

A dozen little hands pulled him from the throne to the waiting feast. And what a feast! The pygmies

had labored over it, and expended the energy of the whole tribe to gather and prepare it. Some was
cooked, some raw, some skinned, some unskinned, some with feathers or scales intact; animals, fish,
and fowl. And there were roots, herbs, nuts, and berries. The pice de resistance, placed directly
before Kit, was a hulking portion of elephant meat, half scorched for his benefit. It had been a major
triumph for the little people to kill this monster, and it was a special treat for their guest of honor. He
realized that this was his first chore, and it was not an easy one. Like Aunt Bessie so far away, they'd
be unhappy if he didn't eat.

He looked at the mountain of rancid flesh before him. There was no escape. All eyes were watching
him. There were no knives and forks here. He reached forward and ripped off a greasy morsel. They
waited. He looked around at the rows of anxious little faces. Like hosts everywhere, they were
awaiting his verdict.

"Here goes," he thought to himself, and holding his breath, began to chew.

That was a signal for happy bedlam among the Bandar.

They danced arid shouted.

"Phantom, Phantom. Long live the Phantom."

"Not for long, if I have to eat like this," he thought. There'll be some changes made in the menus of
the Deep Woods. Still watching him, the pygmies began to gorge themselves. He took another deep
breath, held it, and began chewing the greasy tough chunk again.

His father's last words had been: "There will be good times and bad times."

"I wonder which he would call this," he thought, grinning. But as he looked around at the friendly
faces, so happy to please him and so happy to be with him, he knew the answer. He was home again.

A TPH Presentation

01 Story of The Phantom by Lee Falk

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01 Story of The Phantom by Lee Falk

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TPH Presents

Story of the Phantom

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